


Yorktown

by BlazingStarInInkyBlackness



Series: Dumping Ground AU [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Depression, Destruction of the French Language, Disabled Character, Drug Use, Dumping Ground AU, Eating Disorders, Epilepsy, Everyone Needs A Hug, Foster Care, Genderfluid Marquis de Lafayette, George Washington is a Dad, Homelessness, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Other, Self-Harm, So much angst, conversion therapy, sorry - Freeform, where is the academie francaise when you need it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8570959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazingStarInInkyBlackness/pseuds/BlazingStarInInkyBlackness
Summary: There are plenty of places broken children go. Sometimes it’s right back to the people who broke them or to new people who do the same. A lot of the time it’s to new parents, better parents, but when there’s nowhere else to go?They go to Yorktown.The broken ones, the ones who got hurt trying to protect their helpless sisters, the ones who don’t talk and just smile because then they won’t be hurt, the ones who speak French, forgoing the years of painful work because if they can’t be understood they can’t say anything wrong. The children who wear their sexuality, their gender, their very existence, as a badge of shame.And, of course, the trouble children who won’t stop talking because as long as they’re talking, as long as they’re writing or arguing then someone’s listening to them. They haven’t been left behind.Yorktown welcomes them all and does its best to heal them, if they can be healed.





	1. You'd Better Hide

Burr, as a kid, was a noisy little fucker. No-one could argue with that. He had the kind of attitude that didn’t let people stop, didn’t let people ignore him.

His parents had welcomed it, had encouraged it.

His foster parents? Not so much.

His first family sent him back to the care home after three weeks, not even bothering to apologise to him. They just got back into their car and drove off while Burr watched them. Burr had stared after them in confusion before turning back to the woman in charge of the care home. She just shrugged.

“Sorry kiddo.”

“When are they coming back?” Burr asked, with childish innocence still intact.

The silence that followed was deafening.

 

He didn’t learn then, he didn’t learn to shut up. He got into fights and ran his mouth off again and again until other people got so annoyed they hit him. When they did Burr would just smirk up at them and egg them on, tell them to hit him again if they dared.

So Burr would end up back at his foster home, with the family screaming at him over this new bruise or that new cut. Burr wouldn’t take that silently either, would yell back at them to stop being idiots, to see what’s going on, that it wasn’t just his fault.

And when he ended up sitting alone in his room he’d glare at the door, preparing every argument for when the door would open.

He’d rant and rave into the silence, daring someone to appear him, daring someone to fight him because he knew he was in the right. His morals and ideas were set in stone from a young age and even when he changed them later in life there was rarely a moment of indecision, just a learning moment before he’d move to yell at, to argue, to fight anyone who opposed him.

Burr was broken from his thoughts as the door opened.

“Have you learned your lesson yet?”

“No! I didn’t do anything wrong to begin with! I shouldn’t be the one who gets punished here just because I was the one who got hurt worse! You need to tell the school what he did to me and he needs to be punished for it! I-”

The door shut on his still indignant face.

“Wasn’t my fault.” Burr griped in the car the next day as his care worker drove him away from that house.

“Aaron maybe it would be better if you-”

“What? If I just shut up? If I just let them tell me what to do? If I stopped fighting against them? That wouldn’t be better! I have my opinions and I have my rights to those opinions! No-one gets to tell me that I can’t have them and no-one gets to tell me that I should stop talking! I have rights and I’m allowed to say what I want to. That’s what the constitution says and that means that no-one is allowed to stop me and if they did then they should go to jail!”

“Just shut up for a goddamn second!” The caseworker snapped out. Burr paused for a moment before the woman regained herself. “All I’m saying, is that if you agreed with some of the things they were saying, if you tried to get along a bit better then your life would be a lot easier.”

“But-”

“No. That’s the end!” The caseworker took in a deep breath after that and cranked the radio up, ignoring the child staring at her from the backseat. Burr shifted slightly, went to open his mouth but then paused. Maybe it was better to just agree. But only this time. He had a voice and he was going to use it.

 

The first family that hit him told him that it was to make him better, that beating him would bring out the goodness and flush away the evil. Burr didn’t take that punishment silently either, yelling back at the much stronger man until a well-aimed punch knocked the boy unconscious.

Burr had woken up expecting to be back in the care home or in the hospital. Instead he was still in the bed he’d been ordered to call his own. His foster parents didn’t say anything about that night, didn’t even mention the black eye Burr was sporting.

When Burr went into school he spent the day nervously, sure that he’d be called out on the injuries but his teachers just sighed and moved on. Not once, throughout the entire day, did anyone ask what had happened. The biggest reaction he got was a classmate smiling at him, asking whose honour he’d been defending.

That day Burr felt alone, like he hadn’t for so long. No-one cared enough to ask.

Or no-one was expecting anything else from the problem child.

When he got home no-one mentioned it and as the days passed he began to wonder if he’d made it up, if he’d hallucinated it somehow. Surely the man he was told to call father wouldn’t do that?

The next time he did it Burr called his caseworker immediately, screamed at her down the phone that this wasn’t what she’d promised. She’d eventually calmed him down enough that he knew to get out of the house, get somewhere safe until she was there.

But then his foster father had walked in on him packing.

“What’re you doing there?”

“I’m packing. What does it look like?” Burr spat out, rounding on the man. “I’m leaving here right now!”

“You don’t get to do that, brat.”

“Yes I do! You’re not allowed to hit children. It’s against the law!”

“Not in my household.”

“It’s illegal everywhere!” Burr jumped up, glancing around for a second before continuing. “Almost every country in the world has begun to ban child abuse and currently all States of the US ban it and there are severe penalties for anyone who-”

Before Burr could say anything more he was grabbed by his throat, the hand began to squeeze and after just a few seconds he was on the floor, wheezing.

“At least that shut you up.” The man snorted before stalking off. Burr didn’t even notice him go, just stayed still, stayed silent in fact. The man didn’t come back.

 

The marks around Burr’s throat didn’t go away for a long time but he did nothing to hide them. He wore them to show he’d survived it, that he’d got through to the other side.

He had no idea.

 

As the years trundled on Burr kept talking his mouth off, kept on flaunting his intelligence because he _knew_ he was better. He knew he was smarter than almost anyone else he’d ever meet and so he could explain it to them, he could explain it to them so that they’d understand.

Some people would call it ignorance, some people would call it arrogance. Most people just called it annoying.

Being hit started to be a constant thing in his life. He was jumped from foster house to foster house, ending up in care homes for far too long in between as people stopped wanting to adopt the trouble kid. He wasn’t trouble, he assured himself.

He just had a lot of energy. And far too many ideas.

He knew what his family had left him, what legacy he needed to continue. He didn’t get to stop or take a break, he had to carry on. He had to continue the legacy at least. In the back of his mind there was something that was far too persistent, telling him that he should really build a better legacy.

So instead of fighting he channelled that nervous energy into his work, refusing to stop. He came into school with bruises encircling his wrists but he’d still be top of the class, would still talk non-stop. He ignored the glares of his classmates, ignored the sighs of his teachers, he was allowed to talk.

Right?

But as he continued he stopped being talked to. People stopped trying to help him. He kept his hand up alone in class while the others were picked instead. Then at night he’d go back to a house that was too quiet until he began to fall in line, until he started to fall silent as well.

“Burr!”

Burr stiffened as he heard his name shouted through the halls but he steeled himself to stand and he made his way to the staircase before taking each painful step down. When he eventually came into the living room he instantly saw that his foster father was angry.

Burr’s stomach dropped at that and a vice closed around his throat.

“Sir?”

“What the hell is this?” The man waved a piece of paper in front of him and Burr frowned at it.

“I don’t know.” Burr spat out. “You’re moving it too quickly.”

Before Burr could even internally curse himself for those words the man was holding him against the wall, having slammed him there.

“Do you think you’re smart?”

“Yes. I think I am rather.”

“You don’t have a fucking clue!” The man screamed, slapping Burr across the face. Burr smiled at that, grinned through bloodied teeth and glared up at the man.

“I have more of a clue than you ever will, you imbecile.” Burr spat out that word and watched with a sick sense of pleasure as the man’s face twisted into fury.

“What did you call me?”

“An imbecile. An idiot. Do you need me to get you a thesaurus?” At that point Burr was working off adrenaline, working off pure stupidity. He wanted to scream, to yell but that was for children. This biting wit was him, a part of him that he wouldn’t let go no matter what. He was his mouth, he was the one who ran off with words and grinned at the people chasing after him because as long as he had his words then nothing else mattered.

But the punch that came to his chest felt like it mattered.

It felt like it mattered a lot.

 

Burr leant on the wall, trying not to cry as he clutched his arm. He had to be strong, had to be. He took a hesitating step forwards but paused once more as he heard a voice from inside the classroom.

“Is he still giving you trouble?”

“Not so much.” That voice sounded curious, almost worried. But the first voice returned, angry.

“He shouldn’t. He’s just a foster kid!”

“That shouldn’t change anything.”

“You know he’s only acting out to get attention.”

“But maybe he’s not getting that attention at home?”

“It’s not our problem. Call his foster father if you need to.”

“Will that help?”

“No. If Aaron’s acting out because he can then calling his father won’t do anything. Give him a talking to and then if anything else happens don’t let him get a rise out of you.”

“Do you-”

Burr didn’t listen to any more of it, just slouched away. He didn’t go to school that day, just slipped off into the wooded park next to it. He climbed one of the trees and then just paused, at a high limb and just thought for a second.

Could he stay here? Could he stay here until the police found him? Because they had to, eventually. Eventually they’d find him and they’d bring him somewhere safe.

But they’d thought that his current father was safe.

As Burr sat there he thought for a long time, turning thoughts over and over in his head until night had long since fallen.

They didn’t want him to talk. They wanted him to be silent, silent and still. His current father wanted him to be quiet and if he wasn’t then he’d be hit. The foster people wanted him to be smile more, to be more presentable because that way maybe more people would want him. The teachers wanted him to shut up and sit down, to stop talking over them. The other students wanted him to stop caring.

Burr didn’t want to.

Burr wanted to keep that flame in his chest going but it was wavering every day. It was slowly dying and he couldn’t find a reason to keep it lit. Talking got him into this mess and it wouldn’t help him now.

“I need to-” He paused, suddenly realising how quiet the park was. He took in a deep breath and allowed it to wash over him. That was what he needed to do, needed to be. “Be quiet more. Be happier.”

It took Burr the best part of an hour to climb down the tree and walk home with his now aching muscles.

It took him five minutes to forget his new rules when he got into the house.

It took him another half hour to get into bed.

That was when he started to whisper it to himself, over and over until he couldn’t forget the words.

“Keep quiet. Play happy.”

 

Three years later Aaron Burr stumbled into a police station, lip split but still in a faint upward curve. His nose was bloody and his clothes drenched in the stuff. Instantly one of the officers was on his feet.

“What happened to you, kid?”

“I need to report a crime.” Burr smiled as he spoke, blinking rapidly. “My foster father hit me. He threatened to kill me. He doesn’t lie.” Each word was measured, as if turned over and over in his head until they were stale.

“Okay, we’ll get you someplace safe. What’s your dad’s name?”

Burr relayed the information and was then instructed to take a seat. He did so, silently. He sat in the corner, staring off into nothing and smiling at each officer who passed by. Even when someone wasn’t there there still seemed to be the ghost of a smile there, despite the pain he must have been in.

It took another two hours for someone to arrive and when they finally did Burr was half asleep.

“Is this him?”

Burr started awake at the voice right in front of him and he immediately stiffened, every muscle in his body ready to run but then he forced himself to relax. Smile. Smile more.

Burr put a smile on his face and looked up at the man in front of him. He was tall and broad, with dark skin and a serious face. At the sight of Burr this new man smiled and Burr nodded in response.

“Hello, my name is Aaron Burr.” Burr stuck his hand out, proffering it to the new man who took it with an indescribable look on his face.

“George Washington.”

“It’s good to meet you.” Burr glanced up at the officers around the room for a moment, feeling his heartrate pick up slightly. Who was this man? Why was he here?

“I’m in charge of a care home here in New York.” Washington began to explain himself and catalogued internally as Burr tensed slightly at that as if in fear. As soon as Washington had noticed it, Burr was just as he had been but Washington had a good eye. Something was troubling the boy and he was hiding it. “It’s called Yorktown. Have you heard of it?”

“I have not.”

“Well, that’s not really surprising. We’re quite small but we’re expanding. I’m here to ask if you want to become part of it.”

“Ask? I’ll go wherever you think is necessary.”

“You don’t care?” Washington asked, curiously. Burr paused for a moment before forcing that smile back onto his face.

“No. Why would I?”

“Your last family didn’t work out very well, did it?”

“I am sure you won’t do the same.”

“Are you?”

Fear flashed through Burr’s eyes before he just nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“You seem to be a good man.”

“I promise you now, Aaron, that I will never raise a hand to you.” Washington leaned forwards as he spoke and Burr nodded. So what if he’d been told this before? It had never been better for him when he’d told the foster family that they would eventually.

(And yes. He had tested that out. Several times in fact. Most of them just got teary eyed and so kept hold of him for a few weeks longer but the ones who turned abusive didn’t change. They still hurt him when they were drunk, when he was talking. It didn’t change anything in the end.)

“When will we leave?”

“Now.”

“Okay. I don’t have anything with me.”

“We’ll buy you things later.”

“Thank you.” Burr stood and Washington followed the action. Burr paused for a moment at that and took in a deep breath before smiling up at Washington. “Are there others at Yorktown?”

“Yes. Do you want to know who they are?”

Burr hesitated for a moment. His current father had been his last shot. He was too old to be adopted again and he knew it. This Yorktown was where he’d spend the rest of his life until he got to college. Might as well know who his enemies would be.

“Yes please. That would be nice.”


	2. How Lucky We Are To Be Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelica's sisters are helpless. Angelica makes sure that no matter what happens they won't be hurt. Even if she has to shield them with herself.

It had started the day their mother died. It started the day Peggy was born. It started the day Angelica was first hit, the day their father first hit her.

She’d sprawled to the floor with no understanding what had happened. She’d tried to run to her mother and had just run into the room filled with the stench of blood and a body on a gurney, hidden by a white sheet.

The six year old didn’t understand.

 

Her father didn’t hit her again for a long time, for another four years. But that didn’t mean they were ever close. Angelica never forgot that stinging slap, the pain that had spread across her face until she couldn’t understand. Her father couldn’t quite meet her eyes for a long time.

By the time he hit her again she understood. She understood that the empty bottles were dangerous, that his anger was dangerous and that her own father was dangerous. Eliza watched reproachfully from the side as Angelica carefully dabbed a wet cloth against her own cheek where it had split.

“Tell someone Angie!”

“No.” Angelica growled back.

“Please!”

“No!”

“Why not?” Eliza whined. At that Angelica rounded on her.

“Because you’re just a spoilt brat with no idea what’s going on! So just shut up!” Angelica all but screamed. Eliza stared back, pain obvious on her face.

“’m not a brat.”

“You’re eight Eliza. You don’t know anything.” Angelica spat out. “Now go feed Peggy.”

“Angie-”

“Go!” Angelica snapped out, following Eliza’s movements in the mirror. When the girl was gone Angelica slammed the door shut and then collapsed, her legs giving out underneath her until she was a heap on the floor.

Tears streamed down her face and her whole body was wracked with sobs. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve this.

When her tears finally ran out she stood again and faced herself in the mirror. Her face was still soft, was still so young but at that moment she decided that if that’s what she had to lose to protect Eliza then that would be it.

Eliza was helpless and Angelica was sure that as long as she was alive her baby sister would never be that helpless. Eliza would never be hurt like this.

 

As the years went on Angelica got better at hiding her injuries. Eliza would see them but Peggy never even seemed to notice when Angelica could barely stand up straight.

But Angelica endured it. She endured walking into school with a limp, with a black eye, with a split lip, with a hand encircling her waist. She endured for her sisters.

Because whenever their father started to scream Eliza would start to shake, her breath would ratchet up until she was barely breathing. Panic attacks the doctor had called them. Some days Angelica was happy her sister had them, that she was never really there when their father got bad. She always hated herself after that thought. Angelica would then tell Peggy to take her somewhere safe, somewhere she would be happy. Peggy would smile up and then nod, assuring Angelica that she’d do it.

Eliza would stare at Angelica as she was dragged away but Angelica could never meet her eyes.

Angelica would then walk into their father’s study, constantly glancing around as she did. It was a nervous habit by now, looking around. Normally by the end of the day she was looking around, just thinking how lucky she was to be alive, never mind what she’d had to sacrifice for that.

The day before Angelica’s sixteenth birthday everything went wrong. Peggy had paused for a moment, as her father’s yells had come to her ears rather than the too quick breaths of Eliza. Eliza had then tried to grab Angelica, making Peggy worried for the first time.

“Wh-what’s going on?” She asked in confusion. Angelica just shook her head, she couldn’t explain now. Peggy was still her baby sister. Angelica ignored that Peggy was four years older than Angelica had been that first time, that Eliza was eight years older. All she knew was that she had to look after them.

“Go to your room Pegs.” Angelica gulped in air, trying to steady her voice. “You-you’re going to be alright. Everything will be fine.”

“What’s going on Angie?” Peggy asked, becoming more flustered by the moment. Angelica stared at her for a long moment but then there was a crash from the other room and she flinched.

“Go, Pegs. Go and calm Liza down.” Angelica was proud of how steady her voice was. Peggy opened her mouth to argue but Angelica cut over her. “Go!” Peggy turned and ran, eyes wide. For once she wondered what was going on, what Angelica was hiding from her. But she didn’t ask, trusting her eldest sister too much for that.

Angelica took a deep breath before walking forwards and pushing open the door. Her father stood there, shaking slightly on his feet as he stared at her with unfocused eyes.

“W’re you d’ng?”

“I think you’ve had enough.” Angelica stepped forwards carefully.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough!” He snapped back, grabbing the bottle again. She sighed and reached for it. She caught hold of it first and pulled it close to her. It took her father several long moments to even notice that it wasn’t there. He then blearily looked around before finally working out where the bottle had gone.

“Hey!”

“Please, you need to sleep.”

“Give it back!” He snapped, grabbing for it. Angelica pulled it back easily and braced herself. Her father snarled and hit her, sending her stumbling back. She whimpered slightly but didn’t give in. “Give it to me!” He yelled. This time when he grabbed he got hold of her arm. Pulling her close.

Angelica froze at how close she suddenly was, how she could now smell the alcohol on his every breath.

“Dad-”

“Give it back Catherine!”

Angelica paused at her mother’s name, paused for a moment too long as her father surged forwards to grab the bottle out of her hand. She fell backwards, having not expected it and threw out her left arm to try and catch herself.

Pain exploded in her arm and she started to scream as the bottle broke, sending shards into her hand then pushing alcohol into the injuries. But that pain was eclipsed by the one from her left arm. It was a deep, bone deep, pain which wouldn’t stop.

“Get up!”

Angelica didn’t hear the cry as she kept on screaming, as she curled in on herself. Her father shifted, moved off her and dragged her upright before grabbing for her hand. When he found it empty he yelled something else out and let her go.

Angelica collapsed back to the ground, sobbing as she grabbed her left arm and pulled it towards her. She could barely see through the glaze of tears in her eyes but she could see that there was something wrong with it, it wasn’t straight, instead part of it was twisted out of place in the middle of a bone.

Her father continued to stalk around her, opening drawers before slamming them stop. When she didn’t move he started to get angry. Well, angrier.

Time began to blur for a bit after that for Angelica. She felt hits and kicks landing and was pretty sure someone was screaming but she didn’t know, couldn’t really tell what was going on around her. Until-

“Stop!” It was a child’s voice, still a child. Angelica didn’t move for a moment as she heard Eliza’s voice. “Leave her alone or I’ll call the police!”

Angelica frowned, confused. What was Eliza talking about?

Then she heard a slap and a small gasp of pain from her baby sister.

In an instant Angelica was on her feet, between her father and her sister.

“Not her!” She cried, trying to ignore how hoarse her voice was. It must have been her crying then. “Don’t hurt her!”

“Then get her out of here!” Her father yelled. Angelica nodded and grabbed for Eliza before hurrying her out of the room. The two of them rushed up to Angelica’s bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.

Eliza was shaking softly and couldn’t seem to get her hand away from her nose which was beginning to sluggishly bleed. Angelica whined softly at that and rushed for the first aid kit under her bed, ignoring how she couldn’t move her left arm.

“Why did you do that Liza?”

“You were screaming.” Eliza stared up at Angelica as she spoke, lip trembling. “I- I couldn’t just do nothing anymore Angie! You’re getting hurt and-”

“He’s never going to hurt you Liza. I promise you.”

“He has hurt me!” Eliza cried out, almost pleasing with her older sister. “You’re going to leave for College eventually! What do you think he’ll do to Peggy when that happens?”

“That-” Angelica shook her head. “That won’t happen. He- he doesn’t mean to do this Liza. He’s just- just not been the same since mom-”

“Mom died nine years ago Angie! She’s not coming back and he’s not getting better!”

“You probably don’t remember him back then but-”

“You’re right. I don’t. I remember him now. I remember him hitting you! I remember him hitting me!” Eliza’s hard tone broke a bit at that, into a half sob. “And I remember knowing that if Peggy’s not in her room he’ll hit her!”

“No he- he wouldn’t do that.” Angelica wasn’t sure anymore. All she could think of was the pain in her arm and on her sister’s face. She’d sworn to protect Eliza and yet here she was, bleeding because Angelica had screamed. Because Angelica hadn’t managed to look after her.

“What are you doing to do about it then?” Eliza spat out, tears dribbling down her cheeks. Angelica watched her for a long moment before shifting to bring her into a hug.

“I’m gonna make it all better.”

“Angie-”

“Go and pack. Don’t- don’t pack too much. Pack stuff for Peggy as well.”

“We’re-” Eliza stared at her in amazement. Angelica just nodded.

“I’m going to call the police but we need to make sure we can leave now.”

“Where will we go?”

“I don’t- I don’t know. But we’ll find somewhere and we- we’ll be safe there. I promise.”

“O-okay.” Eliza nodded and broke the embrace before scurrying from the room. Angelica stifled a sob at the fear across Eliza’s face before she picked up her phone.

“He-hello. I need the po-police please. My dad he’s- he keeps on hurting us and he just hit my little sister.”

“Okay sweetie, what’s your name?”

“Angelica Schuyler.” Angelica then relayed her address while moving across the room. She bent down to grab a suitcase and paused. Her left arm wouldn’t obey her and the pain wasn’t going away.

“What’ll happen to my sisters?”

“The police will decide that a bit later.”

“I told them to pack. Was that- was that right?”

“Yes. That was a very good idea. Are you hurt?”

“Yes.” Angelica’s voice broke slightly at that and she furiously brushed away the tears in her eyes. She had to be strong for a little bit longer, just until there were adults there, until there were other people she could rely on.

“How badly?”

“I- I think my arm is broken. It’s not- not moving properly and I can-” Angelica stared at her arm for a long moment before continuing. “I got hit a couple of times and my hand’s all cut up from glass.”

“I’m sending an ambulance out for you now so they should be there just a bit after the policemen. Was anyone else hurt?”

“Liza got hurt.” Angelica started sobbing at that, clutching the phone as if it could help.

“Is Liza your sister?”

“Yeah. El-Elizabeth and Peggy. But Peggy’s safe. I- I made sure she was.”

“And how badly hurt is Elizabeth?”

“I-I don’t know. She wasn’t meant to come down though. She looks after Peggy and I-” Angelica broke off as she heard a siren in the distance. “I think I can hear the police.”

“Okay. Do you want to stay on this line?”

“No. I need to get to my sisters.”

“Okay. The policemen will take your father away and will collect you and bring you somewhere safe. You’re going to be okay.”

“Thank you.” Angelica sobbed out before hanging up. She then scrubbed furiously at her eyes before taking in a dep breath. She had to hold it together for just a bit longer, for her sisters.

Angelica then slipped from her room, silently just as a knock sounded from the door. She froze, waiting with bated breath. After an all too long moment the doorbell rang.

There seemed to be no response from her father so Angelica silently slipped down the stairs. She crept up to the door and opened it, to be faced with two police men.

“Angie, who are they?” Peggy’s voice came from the top of the staircase and Angelica whipped around. Eliza and Peggy were stood there. Eliza hadn’t stopped crying.

“They’re going to help us Peggy.”

“We don’t need help.” Peggy crossed her arms. “Tell them to go away!”

“Miss,” one of the police officers said, placing his hand on Angelica’s shoulder. “Are you Angelica Schuyler?”

“Yes I am. Eliza, take Peggy back upstairs.”

“Come on Pegs.” Eliza tried to tug Peggy upstairs but the child refused, glaring at the police men.

“Are they going to break up apart?”

“No. Just-” Angelica glanced around and sighed. “They’re going to make us safe Pegs. They’re gonna make sure dad won’t hurt us again.”

“He doesn’t hurt us!” Peggy cried out in surprise. Eliza winced slightly but Angelica just steeled her expression.

“Peggy go back to your room! Eliza, take her.”

“No!” Peggy cried. “You can’t take him away!” After a quick moment Eliza grabbed her and dragged her away as Peggy screamed. As soon as she was out of sight Angelica began to sob.

“He-he’s in his study.” Angelica waved in the vague direction and the two police officers started to walk that way. Angelica then wandered out of the house, sat just around the side. She had never wanted it to come to this, to come to choosing between which parts of her family to protect but somehow she had.

Angelica sat there as her father was pulled from the house, handcuffed. He didn’t spot her, didn’t even look for her. It was only when he was gone that she went back inside, back to her sisters. Eliza was holding Peggy who was now sobbing.

“What happened?” Angelica asked, rushing over. The moment Peggy heard her she wriggled out of Eliza’s grip and rounded on Angelica.

“Why did you lie to them? Why would you do that?”

“Pegs-” Eliza started but Peggy overrode her.

“He never hurts us! He’d never do that! They took away my daddy Angie! Why?”

“Because- he wasn’t a good man Pegs.”

“Yes he is! I want him back!” Peggy screamed. Angelica shook her head and Peggy just glared at her. “I hate you! I hate both of you!” With that she took off running, crashing up the stairs. Angelica sat down onto one of the sofas and cradled her arm closer. Eliza sighed and sat next to her.

“What’s going to happen Angie?”

“I don’t- I don’t know!” Angelica’s voice broke off into a sob as she collapsed against Eliza. Eliza made a wounded sound in her voice before hugging her sister tightly.

“We’ll make it though this. We always do. Just look- look around. We-”

“We’re _lucky_ ,” Angelica spat out the word, as if it was poison. “To be alive right now.” She then turned to face her sister. “This should _never_ have come down to luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might be called We'll Never Be Free but I have no idea. This morning that was going to be chapter six so dunno.  
> See you next time.


	3. You Knock Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hercules needs a revolution. He's just never told anyone how desperately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning, this chapter includes rape and the start of an eating disorder. These are going to be recurring themes in this series so if that worries you then you might not wanna read this... the rape will never be graphic but it will be mentioned several times and may be described (as in they talk about it to someone.)

Hercules’ family had never had much money. They had never been homeless but some months they’d been so close, Hercules had known about it ever since his tenth birthday when he’d come downstairs to no presents. He’d thrown a fit before noticing just how tired his mother looked.

“I’m sorry Herc.” She’d whispered, trying to hold back tears. “It’s just-”

“What is it?” He’d asked, still not fully trusting her. “Why aren’t there any presents?”

“There’s not enough money Herc. I-” She’d shaken her head and he’d fallen silent, thinking for once. He knew that they didn’t have many new things, they didn’t go out and buy nice things very often. Almost all of his clothes were old, some were ripped.

“Will Ellie get something?” Hercules asked quietly. At the name of his younger sister his mother just shrugged.

“I don’t know honey.”

“She will. I’ll make sure.” Hercules then enveloped his mother in a hug. “It’ll all be okay. Promise.”

 

From that day he dedicated his time to that present. He scoured the newspapers for jobs that he could do and when he couldn’t find any he went door to door with a bucket and a sponge, asking to clean their cars, to mow their lawns, to do anything.

By the time Ellie’s birthday arrived he’d gathered enough on his own to get her a new dress. The smile on her face was enough. His other three siblings crowded around and his face slowly fell. He locked eyes with his mother and she nodded. This was what she’d tried to shield him from for so long. They didn’t have enough money.

So he kept on mowing lawns. When the winter rolled in he offered to walk people’s dogs. As soon as he could, he picked up a paper round and as each of his sibling’s birthdays passed there was a small gift for each of them.

In those months his mother began to look just a little bit stronger. She had someone beside her to help her, even if he couldn’t help all that much.

But when her youngest started school she knew that Hercules wouldn’t be enough anymore.

So every day she woke up, kissed her children goodbye and didn’t see them again until the next morning. Suddenly Hercules couldn’t work extra jobs, couldn’t balance that because now he had to look after the children.

He was the only one of his siblings to ever see their mother twice a day, when she’d stumble into the house in the middle of the night, ready to collapse. But he’d be there, with a smile and a plate of food. She’d kiss him gently on the cheek before settling down on the sofa, often with a piece of clothing someone had grown out of or worn too thin.

Those were the only moments Hercules got to really relax, as he watched his mother darn and stitch up holes in the clothes, letting out the seams and retacking them messily as her eyes slid shut. After a few months of that he asked quietly if she would show him and she nodded, setting aside her dinner to hand him a needle and thread.

He took to it quietly, as he always was when he was around his mother. He could be loud and boisterous around the children (most days he had to be) but around his mother he got to be quiet, he got to be gentle, he got to be a child again.

He took to it very quickly until he no longer watched his mother but she watched him. It was soothing, calming and he knew it was helping his family.

Now when he found clothes in tatters he could just hum and cut them apart more, stitching them back together into new things. The next time Ellie’s birthday rolled around she got a doll who could wear three different outfits, all made from clothes that had been too worn through or too stained to wear anymore.

 

And for nearly two and a half years that was enough. He’d make little things for other people, little dolls or bears from scraps and very occasionally they’d pay him. But nearly two and a half year after making that first doll he saw a sewing machine that might actually be within his price range.

And his mother fell sick.

Suddenly, at the age of fifteen he had to look after his siblings all by himself _and_ raise the money for his mother’s medicine.

Hercules stopped sleeping fully, spent so much time making things. Every weekend he would send the other kids out, as a small pack, to the neighbourhood to see if anyone wanted a doll or a bear. They normally came back with almost nothing and a full basket but it got them out of the house for a bit of time. For just enough time.

In those hours he’d go to every shop he could find, ask them for jobs and then ask them again, plead with them, beg them, anything. And they still said no.

Apparently they had to obey the law or something stupid.

During the days when Hercules wasn’t at school he argued with the insurance company. They were all insured, surely pneumonia should come under that!

They seemed to disagree.

So Hercules went back to his routine of washing cars and mowing lawns, started to send his siblings over to their friends’ houses. He hated that. He hated how the parents knew what he was going through, how some of them had tried to give him money.

He hated even more that he hadn’t accepted it.

But he let his siblings go over because at least that way they’ll have a solid meal. At least that way they won’t get sick like their mom. She spent the days out of it lying on the couch, barely moving. He wanted to get her into a hospital but there was no way unless the insurance company started playing along with him.

His days were suddenly consumed with numbers, how much sick money his mother was being paid (not enough), how much each batch of dolls and bears got in (not enough), how much they had in reserves (not enough) and how much the weekly food was going to cost (far too much.)

Rather than begging around for jobs he found that he was spending hours in the grocery stores, scouring the shelves for bargain anything. He weighed up how much it would cost him to get Ana, his youngest sister, a new pair of shoes versus how much it would cost for her next meal.

In the end he bought her the new pair of shoes and ignored how his stomach growled at him as he gave his sisters the extra food. He then tried to ignore how their stomachs growled as well.

Teachers began pulling him aside at the end of lessons and he shook them off because they couldn’t help.

Until one teacher could.

Reynolds brought him into an empty room and locked the door, closing off any sound from escaping. Hercules knew what was about to happen and he just accepted it, just allowed it because afterwards he was given a lump of bills and could collapse.

As soon as he was ready to stand he ran from that room to the bathroom, retching as his empty stomach had nothing left to give. When he’d finally recovered he forced himself to stand and to walk to the store that was half an hour away because it was cheaper than the one five minutes away.

He bought bread and milk, he bought pasta and eggs. He bought food.

He handed over the money, counting each bill as it left his hand and every coin that was counted back in. He had enough to last the week.

The numbers halted for a moment. He had enough.

As he walked home the numbers moved again, clicking and turning until they reached the same conclusion. In his pocket he had enough money to buy food for the rest of the week and then enough money to put some towards the rent and maybe even something towards his mother.

The thought didn’t make him feel better, didn’t make him feel better at all. Instead he just wanted to collapse.

But his family was still home, still waiting for him. So he pushed on and finally crashed back into the house. He walked into the kitchen and there was suddenly an eruption of noise all around him.

“Happy birthday!”

Hercules stared around in confusion for a moment before his eyes fell on the cake in the middle of the table. It was painfully homemade, sloppy icing falling off the cake and sloping down at one side. But his siblings were gazing up at him so he just nodded and smiled broadly.

“Thank you.”

He tried to keep the quiver from his voice as his siblings surrounded him and he hugged each of them. He then pointed to the bag behind him, telling them to put it all away while he found something to cut the cake with and something to eat it off.

He continued to babble on, talking about how happy he was that they’d made it for him and how proud of them he was. They glowed with the praise which only made him smile more.

“Are you going to eat it?” Ellie asked, staring at Hercules. Hercules glanced down and frowned, the piece of cake lay intact.

“Of course! You made it for me, now didn’t you?” He cut a small piece of it and raised it to his mouth, forcing himself to put it in his mouth and chew it. He tried not to think, not to remember and when he swallowed the morsel down he smiled at the other children there. “It’s great. Now then,” he leant down. “Don’t you think mom would want some?”

“Mom’s not talking today.” Ana replied sadly and Hercules sighed.

“I know but I got this.” Hercules pulled out the last of the cash and felt the eyes in the room focus in on him.

“Wassa?” Jed asked in confusion.

“It’s the money for Mom’s medication.”

“Where did you get it?” Ellie asked suspiciously. Hercules just smiled at that, Ellie was smart and she was going somewhere in life. As long as he could support her that is.

“The insurance company.” Hercules lied. “They gave the money they promised they would. This is enough to get mom all better.”

“How long will it take?”

“It will take a bit of time but she’ll be okay by the end of it. I promise. Do you want to tell her the good news?” At his words the children scrambled away and ran off into the living room, clamouring noisily. Hercules wished he could say he was sorry but he wasn’t.

He just wanted to be left alone for a while. Forever if that was possible. God, he hadn’t even remembered his sixteenth birthday.

The cake lay on the table, barely touched, until Ellie cleared it away later that night. Hercules didn’t even notice it had gone.

 

The next week Reynolds approached him at the end of school and asked what Hercules wanted to do. Hercules hated himself, hated Reynolds, hated everything, as he did nothing. As he allowed Reynolds to kiss him, to take off his shirt, to-

Hercules didn’t let himself think past that.

He got the money. He got the medication. He got home and then there was food, food that he didn’t want.

So he spent that night next to his mother, watching as she took the first pill, barely noticing.

For the next thirty days whenever Reynolds wanted Hercules he’d go.

For the next thirty days Hercules watched his mother get better.

For the next thirty days Hercules barely ate.

In his head he argued that it just made sense. There was no point in paying for food if he was just going to throw up and he didn’t have the time to eat when he got home from school.

But then the emptiness started to feel good. It felt as if he’d managed to tear something out, as if he’d managed to throw his world into some sort of balance. His siblings dictated how much he’d be able to buy that week. His mother dictated how much time he’d be able to spend at home. Reynolds dictated how much money he had which meant everything.

Hercules dictated how much food he put into his mouth and he watched as the weight slowly vanished, as the pain in his stomach started to grow. In some sick way it felt good.

It was only tarnished when Reynolds noticed it, on the last day of his mother’s antibiotics. Reynolds had whispered loving words to him and Hercules had had no-where to go, nowhere to escape to.

That night, as he heard his mother walking around as if there was nothing wrong, Hercules threw up, forced two fingers down his throat and forced himself to throw up. It was only when he’d done that anything was better, that he got a bit of control back.

When his mother was fully back in the picture everything was a bit better. She could work after not that long and she could just be there. If something went dreadfully wrong then she’d be there to patch it back up.

When Jed cracked his head open on the hard floor she was there, hushing over him as she ordered Hercules to the telephone, to call an ambulance.

When Ellie came back from school crying over a boy she liked then their mother would be there to whisper her comforts.

Hercules began to feel invisible again. He began to feel like nothing, as if _he_ was nothing. He didn’t begrudge his mother, they were her children after all, but after not that long they looked to her in a crisis rather than him.

He shouldn’t begrudge his mother that.

 

He landed his first proper job a month after his mother got better, scrubbing down the toilets at one of the classier halls in town. It meant he had to take long walks there and back but that was okay. He could feel the fat slowly growing across his body and he couldn’t take that, couldn’t take the sensation of it creeping over him.

It reminded him of being pushed, of being pulled. It reminded him of Reynolds. Hercules couldn’t cope with that.

 

During the school day he ignored Reynolds as best he could, refusing to meet his eyes or to even glance at him. Reynolds didn’t extend him the same courtesy. He always seemed to linger for a moment too long over Hercules’ work, over his desk, over everything he did.

The first time Hercules got called back after class he felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He watched the other students file out of the room one by one until it was just him. He then gulped and walked to the front of the room, to come face to face with Reynolds.

“S-sir?”

“Why did you stop coming to me Hercules?”

“It wasn’t right sir.”

“That didn’t stop you before.”

“I was desperate. I didn’t have the means to carry on.” _You shouldn’t have taken advantage of that._ “I had no-where else to turn.” _You should have turned me away._

“And you’re not now? Everybody in this school knows that you’re poor Hercules. What do you think stopped the headmaster from ringing CPS?”

“No-” Hercules let out a gasp which he immediately silence. But Reynolds had spotted it. He knew he had the power now.

“If I ever come to you again you’ll obey me.”

“And if I don’t?” Hercules all but whispered, without a trace of fight.

“Then I’m telling your mother.”

Hercules raced from the room, nearly crashing into a girl waiting just outside. He mumbled out apologies before continuing to run down the halls. Eventually he found an empty classroom and he collapsed down, ducking his head.

“Hello?” A voice rang out. Hercules froze as the voice came again, closer this time. He didn’t want to talk to somebody now. “Hercules?” The voice rounded the corner and Hercules froze. “What are you doing here?”

“P-Peggy?” Hercules asked in confusion. Peggy nodded and crouched down, shuffling down to sit next to Hercules. Peggy was young, too young to be in this school. She must be waiting for one of her sisters.

“What happened Hercules?”

“I- I can’t. Oh God!” Hercules cried out and sobbed.

“Hercules please tell me! I’m your friend!”

“I can’t- they’ll take me away. To- to Yorktown.”

“Why?”

“Because my mom’s ill Peggy! She’s been ill for a long time and I- I let him-” Hercules hit his fist against the wall in anger but then just whimpered when it came back aching.

“You’re doing everything you can Hercules. I- I wish you could tell me some of this. Please!”

“I can’t.” Hercules sobbed out. “I- I can’t.” He could cope, he tried to convince himself. He’d done it before. It would be fine. Nobody needed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM GOING TO KEEP ON WRITING FICS WITH ABUSIVE TEACHER/ STUDENT RELATIONSHIPS UNTIL PEOPLE REALISE HOW TOXIC THESE RELATIONSHIPS ARE. I DON’T MIND PEOPLE LIKING THEM IN FICTION BUT THESE ARE NOT HEALTHY REAL LIFE RELATIONSHIPS. I DON’T FUCKING CARE IF THEY’RE SOULMATES, THE TEACHER IS IN A POSITION OF AUTHORITY AND ITS NOT OKAY FOR THEM TO FUCK THEIR STUDENTS.  
> ESPECIALLY IF THEY ARE UNDERAGE!  
> (Also totally supportive Peggy even if she doesn't understand what's going on.)  
> BTW the chapter title is one of Hercules' it's from Yorktown and it's immediately followed by 'I get the fuck back up again'. I mention this because every time I looked at it after I decided I could only think of dear Theodosia.  
> See you next time.


	4. We'll Never Be Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Laurens fights for freedom. He needs his own first though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning up here for homophobia and mentions of gay conversion therapy. I'm really sorry.

Laurens’ story started the day he smiled at the cute boy walking down the road. The other boy frowned back but Laurens just kept smiling, slipping over to him before interlocking his hands.

That was what people did when they were in love, right?

The next moment he was being dragged off by his father. When they got back to the house Laurens was hit. As he stood there he didn’t understand. He’d just wanted to say that the boy looked cute. Why did he get hurt because of that?

As the years began to accumulate he learned but always too slow.

When he’d had his first kiss it was with another boy, underneath a cherry tree before being dragged away. That night his father had beaten him until he begged out an apology.

He didn’t see the other boy again. He hoped he was okay. (Laurens didn’t think he would be.)

 

The final straw for his father was when he started sleeping with another boy. The first time was hurried and not even that good but when it was over Laurens got to just lie down and watch the other boy. He eventually got batted away and pulled close, told in a mumbled tone to go to sleep.

Laurens didn’t argue, didn’t say that he wanted to stay up because how did he know what would happen if he didn’t? How would he know if the boy would still be there?

But that night he was safe. Laurens scrambled out of the boy’s window in the morning, stealing one last kiss before running back to his own home.

In the next few months he began to get sloppy until one day his father walked in on them. Laurens froze for a moment before leaping forwards, begging his father to not do anything. The other boy just lay there, confused.

As Laurens was slapped across the face the boy jumped into action, trying to pull his father back. Laurens started to scream, telling him to get back, to get away.

When his father slapped the boy Laurens shouldn’t even have been surprised. But somehow he still was.

“Leave him alone! Please!” Laurens pushed the boy back, pushed him away from his father.

“Get out of my way!” His father roared.

“No!”

The room froze for a moment before his father turned on him.

“What did you say to me?”

“No! You don’t get to hurt me anymore! You don’t- you don’t get to hurt him! You-” This slap sent Laurens to the floor, sent his head spinning. Before he could stand his father kicked him in the side.

“You insolent child!” his father screamed. Laurens cried out in pain before curling in on himself. He heard footsteps and the door slam and wanted to sob as he knew that the boy was gone, the boy was safe. But then another kick came to his side and he collapsed once more.

After far too long his father stopped hitting him. Laurens just lay there for a long moment, staring up. Then his father dragged him up and glared at him. Laurens looked back, eyes glazing over slightly.

“Who the hell was that?”

“My boyfriend.” Laurens spat out. He was done hiding. He was done being scared. “I’m gay, dad.”

And then he started laughing at the absurdity of it. He was naked, being held up by his father, ribs bruised to hell and this was when he came out of the closet.

His father didn’t see the funny side.

The next day Laurens stumbled from the house into school, collapsing against the walls as soon as he could. He forced himself into his seat and let his pounding head rest against his arm. No-one mentioned it.

Before the sun had set Laurens had left school, had been taken kicking and screaming as he was shoved into a car.

Conversion therapy they called it, as if adding therapy to the name made it better.

As if that made it humane in any way.

It wasn’t.

On the first day he swore he wouldn’t scream or cry for these monsters. He’d remain himself, he’d remain proud no matter what the bastards did to him.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. 

Don’t let the bastards wear you down.

Words that Laurens was determined to live by.

 

His rules about screaming and crying were broken on the same day, a week in when they first shocked him. He took two weeks of it before he begged his father to bring him home, promised that he’d be normal, that he was straight.

He stayed there another two weeks until his father let him go home.

By then Laurens was just… empty. He didn’t care. Whenever he saw a boy he turned away, he didn’t let himself do that again.

He kissed girls. He liked girls. He slept with a girl.

And in the morning he slipped away, full of guilt and disgust as he remembered the boy he’d once called his boyfriend. He then remembered the boy he’d kissed under that cherry tree, how his eyes had sparkled bright, how his mouth had spilled words as if he was running out of time.

Laurens had run out of time.

So he became a shadow, the perfect shadow. He did what his father ordered and didn’t dare stray. He was happy, he convinced himself. This was how happy straight people were.

His father had told him enough times what gay people felt like, what they were. In the beginning Laurens had kept up a silent commentary fighting it but now he didn’t even dare think. His father was right and that was all that mattered.

 

One day Laurens was curled around one of the girls from his class, kissing her deeply, when the door swung open. She yelped and pulled herself behind him but he didn’t bother. His father stood in the doorway, surprise and something that seemed almost like pride on his face.

“Oh, Mr-Mr Laurens!” The girl stuttered out. “We were just uh-”

“It’s quite all right.” The man smiled. “Jack, a moment please?”

“See you in a moment.” Laurens whispered, kissing the girl gently on the cheek. He then pulled his shirt back on and walked from the room.

“Who was that?” His father asked.

“Martha. She’s from school.” His father didn’t respond to that, just smiling and nodding. “Was there something you wanted, dad?”

“I’m going on a trip this weekend. I want you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“I’m giving a talk and I want my son to be there. Do I need any other reason?”

No, but you probably have one, Laurens thought silently. He didn’t dare say it.

“When will we be leaving?”

“In two hours. We might be gone for some of the week as well and I’ve alerted your school.”

“How long have you been planning this?” Laurens asked, hands morphing into fists at his side, nails digging into the fragile flesh there. Sometimes he couldn’t believe this but all too often he could, why would he expect anything else from his father?

“A while. Now say goodbye to Martha and pack.” With that his father turned on his heel to leave.

“Dad-” Laurens started before stopping. He wanted to talk about how this wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair to expect him to drop everything and just leave. It wasn’t okay for his dad to just barge into his bedroom or for him to then stare at the girl Laurens had been kissing.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

Who cares if it wasn’t fair?

 

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to stand here today,”

Laurens stared up at his father on the podium, bored out of his mind. It had been a long few days since those few moments with Martha. Laurens didn’t really like her, didn’t really feel anything about her to be honest. She was a person, she was pretty and that was about all Laurens knew about her.

They shared a few classes and he’d known she’d had a crush on him for forever. As he’d never been fully out she’d never known about it. It had made sense to become friends with her. It made sense to flirt back when she started. In some twisted way it made sense for him to sleep with her. No matter how much that thought made his stomach roil, that he used someone just because it made sense.

“Jack.”

Laurens’ head snapped up as his father spoke. The room around them was silent, staring at Laurens. The teen glanced back to his father in worry and he inclined his head, indicating Laurens should stand beside him.

With shaking legs Laurens did just that. He stared out over the room, across the faces of men and women he’d never known.

“Jack, tell them about Martha.”

“Wh-what?” Laurens asked in amazement. His father frowned.

“As I was saying before,” He turned back to the crowd. “Conversion therapy is effective. It does work. My own son,” He almost looked sad at his next words. “Believed that he was gay for a long time. Eventually I put a stop to that thinking and got him the help he needed.” Help? Laurens stared ahead, face neutral but his stomach was roiling. That had been help? But then again, he’d seen his father’s punishment so maybe…

“I know that a lot of people would have you believe that it isn’t helpful, that it harms the child but that is simply not true. Ever since Jack’s come home he’d been happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.” Laurens stared ahead, not thinking about the long hours locked away in his room. “He even has a girlfriend. Now go on Jack. Tell them about Martha.” His father pushed him closer to the microphone and Laurens cautiously adjusted it down for his height.

“Um.” He started, wincing at how weak he sounded. “My dad sent me to the therapy and they taught me- taught me what was wrong with me.” When there wasn’t a grumble in the room a part of Laurens collapsed. They agreed with what had been done to him. “I’m a lot happier now. I have a girlfriend back home. Martha. She’s- Yeah. She’s great.” Laurens glanced back at his dad, begging him to take the microphone back but he shook his head.

“Tell them how much better you feel now.”

“It’s been good not having to- to think about men like that.” Laurens wanted to sink into the floor, didn’t want to talk about this. “I can be normal now. It’s all because of- because of the conversion therapy. It uh, it changed my life.” That, Laurens was sure about.

“Thank you.” His father smiled and Laurens retook his seat, sliding down into it instantly. He didn’t want to be there. The speeches dragged on for what felt like forever until there was finally a break. Laurens immediately rushed to the washroom, barely making it before he threw up. All he could think of was Martha back in that bed, staring at him with more love than he deserved.

“Are you okay?”

Laurens froze at the voice. He whimpered for a moment before turning around, seeing that he hadn’t locked the door. There was a teenager awkwardly standing behind him, holding a mop in one hand.

“S-sorry.” Laurens stumbled out before pushing himself to his feet. The other teenager rushed forwards, frowning and supported him.

Laurens didn’t look at him, only caught a glimpse of a tall body and dark skin. The other teen seemed to sense his discomfort and released him, stepping back.

“What’s your name?”

“John Laurens. I’m here with my dad.”

“Senator Laurens?”

“Ye-yeah. How do you know?”

“I have a friend who’s…” The teen paused, as if trying to find the right word. “Outspoken about your dad.”

“They’re probably fucking right.” Laurens growled, scuffing his foot. As soon as he said that he knew he shouldn’t have and he snapped his eyes up, already offering apologies. “I didn’t mean that- uh- I was-”

“Are you okay, man?”

“Yeah. I’m- I’m okay.”

“You don’t look it.” The teen sighed and glanced around. “Look, I have another two hours of this. Do you wanna keep me company for a bit?”

“Uh-”

“You just threw up dude, I don’t think you should go back in there and give another speech.”

“You saw that?”

“Yeah.” The teenager sighed and grabbed the mop, placing it on the floor before looking up at Laurens again. “Wanna talk about it?”

“My dad’s not so great about that stuff. You know, being-” Laurens shivered slightly and the teen frowned.

“Being gay?”

“I’m not.” Laurens blurted out, as if programmed. “I’m- I’m normal. Str-straight I mean. I’m straight.”

“I’m gay.” The other teen said, off-handed. “Do you think I’m abnormal?”

“I think you still haven’t introduced yourself.” Laurens fired back, not letting himself think that this boy was apparently gay. And, actually, pretty hot. But, Laurens reminded himself, not like that.

“I’m Hercules. Hercules Mulligan. Do you think I’m a freak?”

“No. You’re you.”

“And you’re you. What makes us different?” Hercules’ tone didn’t change, he didn’t get angry, just asked. Laurens paused for a moment, mouth open.

“I-”

“Were you really sent to conversion therapy?”

“Yeah.” Laurens dipped his head and took in a deep breath. “They fixed me there.”

“Were you broken?”

“Yeah. I was gay.”

“Am I broken?”

“I don’t know!” Laurens shouted, losing his temper. “I don’t know who you are or why I’m talking to you! All I know is that my father is waiting for me and at least now he’s happy! Now he calls me his son! Now he won’t hurt me anymore! If- If I have to be terrified every time I see a man then maybe that’s God’s punishment! Maybe- maybe me trying to be better is enough! Maybe I’m still going to burn in hell! Maybe-” Laurens broke off and took in a deep, shuddering breath. “And maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about because all I can see is Martha and- oh god.” All of the energy dropped from Laurens suddenly, as if his strings had been cut.

“John, look at me.” Hercules rushed to the teen’s side and pulled his face up. Laurens looked up, looking exhausted.

“Yeah?”

“You said your dad hit you. Was he the one that sent you to the therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you want it?”

“No.” Laurens could feel tears beginning to gather and brushed them away angrily. He shouldn’t cry. “I begged him to take me back home but he wouldn’t.”

“He drag you here tonight?”

“A few days he just told me we were coming here. Just- I dropped everything and had to come here. I don’t even know when we’re going back.”

“Do you think he’ll hit you again?”

“After what I did tonight? Definitely.”

“Why do you let him then?”

“He’s stronger. He’s more powerful. I can’t stand up to him.”

“Have you thought about leaving?”

“Leaving home?” Laurens laughed in disbelief. “I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“I’m sixteen!”

“And you’re being abused.”

“It-” Laurens sighed. “It’s not like that. He only does it when he gets mad or drunk. He’s normally fine. He’s normally busy.”

“So either he ignores you or hits you?” Mulligan asked, with a raised eyebrow. Laurens tried to deny it before just nodding.

“He’s my dad. What am I meant to do?”

“You know the friend I mentioned? They’re in foster care right now. I can get the head of that home to talk to you.”

“How long would that take? I dunno how long I’ll be here.”

“Uh-” Hercules leant the mop against the wall and shifted around his pockets for a moment before pulling out his phone. He extended it to Laurens and Laurens frowned as he saw how thin the teen’s wrist was and how battered the phone was. “It’s under Washington.”

Laurens held the phone in his hand for a long moment, staring down at it. Hercules looked away and grabbed the mop again. Eventually Laurens broke the silence. “Is it worth it?”

“Is what worth it?” Hercules paused as he spoke, turning back to Laurens.

“Leaving all of this. I mean I’m- I’m happy at home.”

Hercules regarded Laurens for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head.

“I don’t know your life John but you don’t look happy. You didn’t look happy when you were talking about your dad or when you were talking about your ‘therapy’. I don’t think you are happy.”

“Would this help?” Laurens asked, not even bothering with trying to argue any of the other teen’s points.

“I have no idea honestly. But it would mean you didn’t have to be hit anymore. Take your time. I’ve got another two hours here.” With that Hercules turned back to the mop while Laurens stared down at the phone.

He slowly moved his finger over to the contact information. It took him several long minutes to click to call, minutes in which the only noise was Hercules’ mop against the floor and the sound of Laurens’ heartbeat echoing in his ears until he was nearly deafened by it.

“Hello Hercules.” The voice was warm and Laurens felt a sense of calm wash over him as he heard it. “This is George. Has Peggy turned off her phone again?” There was a joke there, Laurens could feel it. A joke Hercules would know how to answer and a joke that Laurens couldn’t hope to understand.

“Uh this is- this is John Laurens.” Laurens could barely believe he was doing this, the first act of defiance since that boy in his bed all those months ago. “Hercules Mulligan gave me this number and I think- I think I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no plans to return to the gay conversion therapy place in this fic or the next one apart from in conversations. I don't think I'll be including flashbacks/ nightmares. Can't promise cause I haven't finished writing it yet but I don't think it'll happen.  
> I'm swamped with essays to write so I sensibly decided to not do that and write this instead :D I make such good decisions!  
> Next chapter (hopefully) will be called 'Who's waiting for me?' So try to figure out who that is (I don't think it's too hard tbh) The one after that will (probably) be called 'We have to win?'  
> See you next tine.


	5. Who's Waiting For Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jefferson's coming home. He just needs to work out where that is.

The wind blew down the street, still sending smalls wisps of snow along with it. The ground was treacherous with ice and covered in an almost maliciously thin layer of snow. The few people who ventured out while the sky was still dark did it with quick steps and hunched shoulders.

On a corner there sat a pram. The few that did walk past it barely gave it a glance, not even pausing to wonder what was in it. It took until long after the sun had rose, long after the snow had stopped, for anyone to pause.

It took another hour for someone to check inside it, to find the baby curled up with blue fingers and a body as still as death, a letter tucked into the purple blanket.

The baby was rushed to hospital, was fussed over for hours until it finally gave out a weak wail, thrashing ever so slightly against the blankets that were piled up around it to protect it from the frozen death it had come so close to.

“He was just abandoned?” One of the nurses asked, staring down at the boy. The other nodded, sighing.

“We have no idea how long he was out there.”

“Was there a letter? Anything?”

“Yes.” The nurse pulled the letter from the side and passed it to the other woman who smiled as she took it. “It doesn’t say much.”

“To whoever reads this,” the woman started to read. “I can’t support myself anymore. This baby is called Thomas. I left him somewhere noticeable and he’ll be alright until he’s found. Please don’t try to find me. Thomas was never meant to exist, he was an accident and he doesn’t have a place in my life. I hope he can find a new home somewhere else.”

“Sounds like Thomas here got off lightly.”

“I can’t believe-”

“That someone would do that?”

“That a mother could abandon her child! It’s--” the nurse paused, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand it.”

“It’s not our job to understand. Just to help.”

 

It took a week for the baby to recover sufficiently to be passed into CPS but he did. He struggled against the cold that had threatened his life, the ribs that showed through his skin, the infections that threatened to take root every day. He fought.

Within the month Thomas was adopted, a pair who had fought long and hard for a child and had lost time and time again no matter what they tried. So Thomas grew as Thomas Mitchell. He had everything he could want; a mother, a father, four grandparents and a dog who adored him.

Thomas grew up never knowing who he had been, who he could have been. He was his parents son, their one and only and nothing else mattered. He didn’t notice how tired they were, how they seemed to sag in the moments before they saw him. He didn’t notice the bills steadily growing or the pink slips that were gathering dust as his father searched for a job.

Thomas was far too busy growing up to bother with that. He knew the boy across the road well and every day he’d run over there after school, would play until the sky was dark and his mother was calling for him. He’d read deep into the night, any book he could grab he consumed, learning so much until it felt like his mind was going to explode with the world set before him. When that happened he would drift off into sleep, still clutching those worlds in his mind but knowing he didn’t have to think about them. He already had everything he could ever wish for.

He was happy and even when his parents weren’t, they pretended for him and every time they did they found some of the tightness in their chests loosening, their smiles coming easier and their faces becoming lighter.

When Thomas’ sixth birthday came around his parents had a whispered conversation, still clutching the letter they’d never shown their son. In the end they didn’t show it to him, putting it back with his adoption papers because it didn’t matter, they were a family, screw genetics.

When Thomas was seven his grandfather and grandmother moved closer, until they were just ten minutes’ walk away. Thomas hated it at first, wished that it would just go back to him seeing them once or twice a year but it didn’t.

His grandmother was a busy woman, the life of the party even with how old she was. She would bustle around the kitchen, baking cakes for this coffee morning or that fundraising event. No matter what, there would always be a cake in her kitchen. The question would always be if Thomas would be allowed any or if he’d be swatted away and told to wait for dinner.

When he was swatted away he’d slump back into the living room, glaring off into nothing. Then his grandfather would appear. His grandfather was nothing like his wife. Where she was all talk and movement he was slow and careful. But his stories were enrapturing. As much as Thomas didn’t want to, he’d be drawn into the stories, listening as his grandfather described stories from his youth, stories about growing up and growing old.

Thomas never questioned why the man was so old, or why his own parents were a decade older than most of his friends’ parents. He wouldn’t have understood anyway, wouldn’t have understood how long it took for his parents to give up, to accept him as he was. To accept he was never truly theirs.

His grandfather needed a cane to walk, leaning on it heavily with every step and every breath strained him. _Cigarettes, my boy. Never touch the damn things, you hear me?_ But whenever he wasn’t coughing his voice was soothing, painting worlds that Thomas had never even glimpsed before.

His grandfather told the stories of men who had lived and died hundreds of years ago, men and women who had sacrificed their lives for a greater cause and those who had died for nothingness. Whenever Thomas’ grandmother walked in she’d sigh.

“Still blabbering that old nonsense?” She’d ask, with a smile.

“The boy needs to know where this country came from!”

“Just don’t give him nightmares.”

“I won’t have them! I- I promise! Grandad, can you tell me about the other Thomas again?”

“Thomas Jefferson?” The man asked, frowning slightly. Thomas nodded eagerly.

“He’s like me! He’s got my name and everything.”

“But you’re Thomas Mitchell. Remember that.” The man sighed at that. “You’re my grandson.”

“I know grandad. But I wanna know more! Will you tell me?”

Thomas didn’t understand the look in his grandfather’s eyes for years, until he understood why his skin had never been the same colour as his family, not quite. He didn’t understand until he first saw the words, the slurs that were thrown around as if they were nothing. He didn’t understand until he realised just how Jefferson had used his ancestors over two hundred years ago.

 

When Thomas turned ten the incredible happened; he was going to have a sibling. As soon as he heard about it he ran to his grandparents and cheered, babbling about how great he was going to be as an older brother and how well he’d be able to look after the kid.

He didn’t notice the pain in his grandmother’s face or the barely concealed rage in her husband’s face.

But then his grandfather was standing and suddenly Thomas realised how tall he was at his full height, how intimidating he was.

“W-why aren’t you happy?”

“Stay here Tommy.” His grandmother whispered, reaching for him as his grandfather strode from the house.

“Where’s he going grandma?”

“He- he needs to talk to your parents.” She looked pained and Thomas frowned at that. She was never upset.

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked quietly. She just shook her head, eyes filling with tears. Thomas stared at her for a long moment, icy dread filling him. He turned on his heel and ran, raced from the room and then from the house. He paused when he didn’t see the car in the drive but then ignored it and sprinted back to his house. With every footstep that slammed against the concrete his mind was whirring. With every laboured breath he couldn’t stop thinking about the tears in his grandmother’s eyes or the anger in his grandfather’s face.

When Thomas finally got to his house he was red faced and panting, having to struggle for each breath he took in but he fought for them as he stumbled into the house. As soon as the door was open he could hear shouting, his grandfather shouting. That made him pause. His grandfather didn’t shout.

Thomas snuck into the living room and watched as the room froze around him. His grandfather was panting heavily, clutching onto his stick with shaking hands, one pressed over the other until they were both white from the pressure.

“Tommy-” his grandfather started before drawing in a shuddering breath. “Go- go back to- your grandma.”

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked quietly. “I don’t- What’s going on?”

“Your grandfather-” Thomas’ father started before sighing. “Thomas, we need to tell you something. It won’t be easy to-”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” His grandfather spat out. Thomas gasped at that, his grandfather didn’t cuss in front of his parents. “Don’t you- dare tell him like- like this! He is your- son!”

“Dad please just sit down.” The man shook his head, refusing his son’s arm.

“I- won’t sit down if you- if you think you’re going to pass off this bullshit as- love!”

“We do love him!” Thomas’ mother cried out before placing a hand on her stomach, as if a reminder. “But-”

“Mommy?” Thomas asked, staring up at her in confusion. She avoided his gaze and his grandfather took that as the moment to stride forwards.

“This is- not right! You don’t- get to- to leave him now!”

“Who’s leaving?” Thomas glanced around the room, watched as his parents avoided his gaze. His grandfather was too busy sucking in air to do anything else.

“No one! Not as long as- as I’m here!” His grandfather wheezed out, glaring at Thomas’ parents as he did. “No-one is- taking my- grandson from- me!”

“Dad please sit down.”

“No!” The man roared. “I won’t- sit and just- allow this travesty to- to happen! Thomas is your- son! I don’t- care what you- you say!”

“I don’t understand!” Thomas wailed, tears beginning to build in his eyes. “Grandad what-”

“It’s- alright my boy. They-” Thomas’ grandfather paused, frowning slightly as his words slurred. “Tom-”

“Grandad?” Thomas asked hesitantly, stepping forwards. His mother shrieked as the man suddenly collapsed to the floor, half of his face sagging as his eyes closed. “Grandad!” Thomas yelled, dropping to the floor. He didn’t really hear his parents behind him as they grabbed for a phone, as they rang for the ambulance.

 

Over the next month Thomas spent all the time he could in the hospital as his grandfather struggled. When he finally woke up he couldn’t speak, could barely move his head. It took him days until he was sitting up and talking and even then he wasn’t remembering stuff properly, things were slipping away when they shouldn’t be.

Thomas stopped asking after his grandmother broke down in tears. She was the only person who spent more time there, she kept an almost constant vigil for her husband. As the month progressed she began to look exhausted, the bright energy that had filled her was seeping away and every time Thomas entered the room she looked like she wanted to cry.

Six weeks after the stroke (Thomas understood what that meant at least, as soon as someone had given him a name he’d researched it. He had to.) Thomas’ parents sat down with him.

“Tommy, we need to tell you something and you need to understand that it doesn’t change anything. Okay?”

“Mommy, I don’t understand. Is this- is this what grandad was talking about?”

“Yeah kiddo,” his father chimed in. “It’s about that.”

“Thomas, we love you. We’re your parents and that- that won’t change, okay? But-” His mother broke off, frowning before continuing. “You’re not our natural child.”

“What?” Thomas asked in confusion. “Yeah I am.”

“No kiddo. You’re adopted.”

“No- you-” Thomas frowned, staring at both of them, as if wishing they’d make a joke out of it. “I don’t believe you!” Rather than a response his mother slid across the table a scrap of paper and a folder. Thomas took the document with shaking hands and leafed through it, looking at baby pictures that had been dotted around the house.

“Your mother abandoned you when you were just a few weeks old. She nearly killed you. We’d tried for a long time to have a kid but-” His father sighed and shook his head. “It had never worked before. This is- this is a miracle.”

“So my sibling’s gonna be special?” Thomas asked, willing his voice to not quiver. His mother nodded, smiling proudly.

“They’re going to be amazing.”

“And I- I’ll get to be their big brother, right?”

“Well...” Thomas’ father glanced at his wife who paused as well before she continued, obviously choosing her words carefully.

“Thomas, we’ve waited years for this baby. We- with the state your grandfather in is now and how your father-”

“What's wrong?” Thomas asked, confused. His mother sighed. Her husband squeezed her hand and turned back to Thomas.

“Thomas we can’t keep you now.”

“I-” Thomas shook his head, mouth opening and closing in confusion. “I don’t-”

“We love you Thomas, we do. But we can’t support two children. We couldn’t even before your grandfather got sick. Now-” She shook her head, sighing. Thomas stared back, mouth hanging open.

“You’re giving me up?”

“I’m sorry Thomas.”

As there wasn’t any real answer to Thomas’ question he slowly stood before stumbling out of the house. He needed fresh air.

His feet retraced a familiar pattern and before he knew it he was at his grandparent’s house. Thomas stumbled inside and raced into the living room where his grandfather sat, half asleep. As Thomas barrelled in the man jolted upright and frowned. Thomas rushed to him and engulfed him in a hug, sobbing.

After a moment he felt arms wrap around him and he just sank into his grandfather’s grip.

 

Thomas never saw his grandfather again, didn’t watch as the man suffered stroke after stroke, as his wife tried so desperately to help him. He wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, was given the news by his new foster parent as if it didn’t matter.

That night Thomas gathered everything he could bring himself to care about and ran back to that familiar house. He paused outside the door, staring inside. He realised after a long moment that he was expecting his grandfather, his slow walk and his laboured breaths. Thomas wanted his grandfather back.

He knocked on the door quietly and was met by his grandmother instead. She looked old, she looked tired but when she saw him she offered a weak smile.

“Hello Tommy.”

“Is-is it true?” Thomas asked, voice shaking slightly. She sighed and nodded. “No!” Thomas choked out, voice too weak to express what he felt.

“It was peaceful. In-in the end it was peaceful.”

“He can’t be gone! I need him!” Thomas shrieked. His grandmother grabbed him and pulled him inside, closing the door behind them as she sank to the floor.

“We both do.”

It took a long time for Thomas to calm down

 

 

That wasn’t the end of Jefferson’s story but it was _an_ end. It was the end of Tommy, the child who had believed. What is far more interesting than the death of Tommy is the birth of Jefferson.

His parents loved him. Tommy still believed that.

So what if they abandoned him when they got a new kid? They had a reason.

They had to have.

Jefferson didn’t want to think about them anymore. Admitting he was their child would admit that they had abandoned him. Refusing would mean refusing his grandparents and neither Tommy nor Jefferson was willing to do that.

So he didn’t let himself think about them.

As Jefferson grew he grew clever but not wise. He grew with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. But he knew his limits, he knew when to reign it in because he wanted people to like him.

Until one day when he was eleven, when he heard a child crying and found out that he couldn’t do nothing anymore. So he leapt into the middle of it, cutting down the people around him with his words because he’d never needed more.

And when he wound up in the nurse’s office at least he wasn’t alone. The little girl next to him slipped a hand into his and smiled up at him. Jefferson had smiled back.

 

He’d left that house that very night, apparently they’d signed up for the perfect child not a fighter.

 

It was an ongoing story. No matter where he went they didn’t want him, not really. They wanted a perfect version of him, a silver plated and gold inlaid version. They wanted him to act the part.

So act he did.

It didn’t matter who he got to know, who he fell in love with, they’d still be taken from him. Every family dropped him in the end and so he began to drop them. He began to brace for impact while he was still safe, when there was solid ground beneath his feet.

If they were going to get rid of him why shouldn’t he do it first? Why should he wait for them to hurt him?

Every time his caseworker brought him back to a foster home Jefferson would spend the journey staring out of the window, watching the world spin past him. He knew he needed to stop it, needed somewhere he could stay if he wanted to get anywhere in his schooling but he also knew that it didn’t matter. No-one wanted him.

 There was never a friend waiting for him.

 

Jefferson leant against the window, staring down disinterestedly. A car drove into the driveway and he sighed. Another kid.

“Jefferson!”

Jefferson took in a deep breath before smiling and walking into the corridor.

“Yes?”

“Oh.” His foster mother had obviously not expected him to be right there, she paused before smiling. “Your father and I need to have a talk with you downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Don’t question me!” She snapped. Jefferson just continued to stare at her, obviously unimpressed. She frowned before turning on her heels.

“Who’s the new kid?” He called after her, grinning as she froze halfway down the hall.

“That is Mr Eacker.”

“Eacker?” Jefferson asked. She glanced back at him and shook her head.

“We tried. We tried to help you.”

“I don’t need help from you.” Jefferson watched as she curled her hand into a fist. She wouldn’t hurt him, they both knew that. So Jefferson could goad her all he liked.

“You need it from someone. Get your stuff.”

Jefferson didn’t even respond to that, just walked back into his room and picked up his suitcase. It was full, laundry day having been yesterday. The thought made his knuckles clench, that they’d known and they hadn’t even bothered to tell him, to-

“Thomas?”

“Oh,” Jefferson turned to the doorway to see a little girl stood there. She didn’t look any older than five and she was staring at him nervously. “Hey there Kitty.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yeah. I- I gotta go.”

“They can’t take you away again!” The girl cried out, staring at Jefferson. In response the boy just shook his head.

“It’ll be okay Kitty. I promise you. Come here.” Jefferson opened his arms and Kitty ran forwards, crashing into him. He sighed and held her closer, knowing he’d probably never see her again. “Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

“You said you’d stay!”

“I-” For once, Jefferson had nothing to say.

“Please don’t go!” She sobbed out, clinging to him. He just shook his head and blinked quickly, forcing the tears out of his eyes. It wouldn’t help him to be weak now.

“You have my number. If he- if anyone _ever_ tries to hurt you,” His voice was hard now and Kitty paused, lip trembling. “Call me. I’ll be there. I- I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“What if you don’t?”

“I will Kitty. I promise! I’ll be back.”

 

Jefferson stared down at the blood pooling around his feet. It was bad. He was pretty sure of that. The white snow that was meant to surround him was slowly becoming saturated with blood, the purity mixing with him until there was no distinguishing feature.

Jefferson dropped to his knees and raised a shuddering hand to the snow. He couldn’t leave it so- so corrupt.

As he scratched away the top layer of snow more blood dribbled down his hand, dropping onto the fresh snow.

He only tried for a few seconds before remembering just what he was meant to be doing. Jefferson glanced back at the house before grinning, a smile full of blood that wasn’t entirely his own.

The fucker had deserved it.

 

 

The night that his phone rang Jefferson was lying on his floor, breathing hard. He couldn’t quite breathe in fully and he knew that his chest shouldn’t be hurting so much. But it was and so what was he to do?

The phone rang and Jefferson groaned, reaching for it. It took him three times to actually grasp it and even when he did the screen wouldn’t focus properly.

“Tommy?”

“K-Kitty?” Jefferson asked in amazement, struggling to sit up before letting out a pained gasp. “What’s happening?”

“He’s not stopping! He-” Kitty fell silent and Jefferson stilled as he heard a cry from the other end of the phone.

“Who’s he hurting?”

“I don’t know. He’s- I ran upstairs. I’m- I’m so scared Tommy!” Kitty was crying by that, sobbing down the phone as if it was her last piece of protection. Jefferson set his face and stood. He didn’t let himself think about the blood he left behind on the floor.

 

“Wh-what did you do, Tommy?” Kitty’s voice shuddered as she spoke and Jefferson just laughed, a laugh that quickly turned to a sob.

“It- it was self-defence Kitty. I- I promise.”

“How? How was that-” She stared down at his knuckles which were smeared with crimson blood. His entire body was splattered with it, his shirt drenched in it. He didn’t seem to realise where he was, hunched in on himself next to a snow laden tree. The snow in  front of him was red and bloody, as if he’d tried to remove the blood from his hands.

“He started it. I’m young enough. I-”

“Was it?” Kitty grabbed Jefferson’s shoulder and pulled him around, forcing him to look into her eyes. “Was it self-defence?”

“Don’t ask me that Kitty. Don’t-” Jefferson broke off and took in a deep breath. “He won’t hurt you. I- I promise you. He will never hurt another kid. He won’t hurt anyone.”

“Oh my God Tommy, what did you do?”

“I looked after you.” Jefferson’s voice broke slightly at that. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes you did. But-”

“That’s all I need to know. That’s-”

“Where are you going now?”

“I-” Jefferson sighed. “I’m going to the police Kitty. I’m going to tell them everything. Then I- I’m going to go to jail or another bullshit foster home.”

“Tommy you- you deserve better.”

“Kitty, this world doesn’t fucking care okay? You need to understand that.” Jefferson snarled out. “It will rip you to fucking shreds and spit you out!” Kitty took a step back at the words Jefferson was spitting out.

“Tommy-”

“You need to leave Kitty.” Jefferson pushed himself to his hands and knees and then slowly stood, every movement agonising. “They can’t find you here.”

“You need to leave as well!”

“No. I- I need to accept what I’ve done.”

“You protected me!” Kitty cried out. Jefferson just met her eyes and she paused. There was something different about him, something that was far too cold for his usually warm eyes. It was as if something had frozen him, as if he’d finally broken.

“I killed a man Kitty. There’s no excuse for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chap title is from 'What'd I Miss?'  
> Sorry for the delay between chapters. There is a chance I'm going to post Lafayette's chapter tomorrow tho. Dunno. Still needs a bit of work.  
> See you next time.


	6. Fluent in French, I mean...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette, America's favourite fighting Frenchmen. No-one asked when he started to fight. Or, more importantly, when he gave up.

Lafayette arrived in America with far too much enthusiasm. He bounced into the world, imagining what amazing things America could give him. He thought they would welcome him with open arms and warm smiles. And people did. They smiled at him, at the cute little French kid. Lafayette basked in the attention and no-one was surprised when he got adopted.

On the car ride over Lafayette jiggled his legs in anticipation, wondering what his parents would be like. He hoped they’d love him like his first parents had. His first parents had adored him, had left him with land and money and his surname which he wore as a badge against everything anyone would dare to throw at him.

His name protected him and reminded him that no matter how good these new parents would be he was still a Lafayette. He was still his father’s son and that would never change.

Lafayette scrubbed at his cheek at that thought, berating himself for getting himself upset. His case worked knocked on the window and he forced a grin onto his face, staring out at George and Charlotte Frederick, his new parents.

“Bonjour! I-I mean, hello!” He exclaimed to them, grinning widely. Charlotte cooed at that.

“Look Georgie! He can speak English!” Charlotte squealed out. “How much do you understand me?” She slowed her speech, extending the words as she did. Lafayette’s face fell slightly before responding.

“Perfectly. I may be French but I do understand your language. I have spoken it from birth.”

“Oh.” Charlotte’s face dropped and she just stared at Lafayette for a long moment before shrugging. “George, we’d better get back to the house.”

“Of course dear.”

 

While Lafayette stayed with them he never wanted for anything. He was fed three full meals a day, was given a comfortable bed to sleep in and spent his days in peace. He was taught by private tutors and mingled, both with children his own age and adults.

But he wasn’t happy. Because every so often George’s face would drop and Charlotte would cower for a moment, pushing Lafayette away.

“I- I do not understand.” Lafayette whispered on one such occasion. The two were sat in Lafayette’s room as they heard George stomping around the floor below. Charlotte looked terrified and Lafayette was so confused.

“He is mad. Uh,” Charlotte frowned. “Il est fou.”

“I understand English, Madame.”

“Maybe it would be better if you didn’t.” She snapped out.

“What?” Lafayette asked, quietly.

“We didn’t adopt you because you can speak English. We adopted you because you’re French. Act like it!”

“Madame-”

But with that she was gone, leaving Lafayette to sit there in confusion.

 

The next day he greeted her, tentatively, in French. She beamed back and even George smiled a bit. Lafayette filed that away as thoughts for another time but he couldn’t stop watching after that. Every time a French word slipped out of his mouth his parents would smile, just a little bit.

Lafayette had to think about it for a long time, had to weigh up abandoning his skill with English with pleasing his parents. But then he remembered that they were keeping him safe, they were letting him be safe. He could relearn English, if he forgot too much of it.

Yes, French was better.

As the months went on Lafayette stopped speaking English, let it slide from his language until he was speaking almost fluent French. When he did Charlotte would smile, a wide grin that made Lafayette’s skin crawl. She’d coo over him as if he was a child and would talk slowly to him, as if forgetting he was fluent in English.

George was no better, constantly telling Lafayette to translate words. Eventually Lafayette started to say that he just didn’t know. And as he pretended he hoped that was all it was, a pretence to make his family happy.

The first day Lafayette reached for an English word and found that it was missing he broke down sobbing. But he pulled himself up, walked back down to the kitchen and stumbled over asking for Charlotte to pass the salt. If this was what he needed to make his parents happy then he’d do it.

 

Every few weeks Charlotte would go to the shops for a new dress or a new set of shoes. Lafayette didn’t pay much attention to it until one day when she decided to bring him along. He muttered French to himself from the back of the car while she chattered away loudly.

Lafayette normally loved it, adored deciding what he wanted to wear next and how it would change how he looked but he just didn’t want to that day. He wanted to go back home and watch a movie. Or anything other than having to take off his clothes and put new ones on.

He didn’t know why that idea seemed to repulse him on some days. He knew it shouldn’t. But he pushed that thought from his brain, along with every single time George had been angry and the words that slipped further from him with each day.

When they finally arrived Charlotte pushed him towards what must have been the male side of the shop. Lafayette, resigning himself, he picked out a few tops before pausing. Everything seemed so… dull.

The clothes weren’t colourful enough and they just seemed to fade into nothing with all of them next to each other. He got days like this a lot, days where clothes didn’t seem to want to fit him, wouldn’t mould comfortably to his shape like he knew they should. On some of those days the material would scratch against his skin, making him want to tear his skin off.

Sometimes that feeling stayed even after he took the clothes off.

After finding a few more shirts Lafayette gave up, putting each item of clothing back and leaving to find Charlotte.

However, as he left his eyes caught on a shirt. It was sleeveless and would cling to him. He slowly took it off the shelf and looked at it for a long moment. It was a mess of colours; yellow, white, purple and black being the most prominent.

Lafayette walked into one of the changing rooms and pulled it on. He half noticed how it didn’t fit his chest, how it bulged where a man’s chest wouldn’t. Instead he watched where it dipped low, revealing the top of his chest and how it gathered around his stomach wonderfully.

As he stared at himself he felt an odd feeling falling over him; a sense of being complete. It didn’t make sense to him, not really. It was, after all, just a top. But in that moment he felt as if he was walking a knife’s edge.

After a few seconds of debate he threw himself over the edge, rushing back to Charlotte with the top in hand and spewing so much French that she was too busy smiling to notice that anything was off.

 

The next time he went shopping he lingered a bit too long over the woman’s clothes, looking at the dresses and how they tumbled down the model’s figures. He felt such an odd sense of longing that he grabbed one of them, glancing around carefully before dragging it into a changing room. His heart was in his throat every second as he pulled it on with shaking hands.

But then that completeness washed over him as he stared at himself in the mirror. It wasn’t perfect but it felt so good. He could see that the dress wasn’t made for his body type but it was a dress and, for some reason, that was all his body wanted in that moment.

That week he went back to that shop five times, each time just looking at the dress as he debated in his head. He could buy it, he wanted to buy it. That sensation of wearing it was worth the money it cost ten times over. But once more Lafayette could feel that knife’s edge and he could feel himself slipping.

He rushed to the counter and placed the dress down, smiling at the woman as he did.

“Buying for a girlfriend?” She asked, smiling. Lafayette’s stomach dropped at that as he managed a weak nod. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t natural. This was- this was wrong.

When he got home he stuffed the dress to the back of his closet and decided to forget it. He’d be fine without it. He suffered through the days he wanted to rip his skin off, survived the days he didn’t want to be in his body anymore. He survived it all as he felt his identity slip away. Lafayette found English more and more difficult to remember, words slipping away from him every day until it was just easier to converse in broken French than even attempt.

Neither of his parents noticed, Lafayette realised soon enough that they didn’t care.

The first time he took a razor to his skin he didn’t cry. He just stared for a long moment, the numbness slowly fading off into nothing. Then he hurled the razor across the room before huddling into a corner and crying.

He wanted to rip his skin off, wanted to dig underneath it and just push until there was nothing. He wanted to hit his chest until something cracked, until his lungs gave out. He wanted to crash his head against the wall until he couldn’t anymore. He wanted to speak French. He wanted to wear the dress! He wanted to be normal! He wanted to be happy!

But instead he just sat there, sobbing silently.

 

Lafayette shouldn’t have been surprised by how quickly George found out about the dress. One of the servants had gone through Lafayette’s closet on the orders of Charlotte and they’d dragged out a dress.

One day Lafayette got back from his lessons to see George standing alone in the living room.

“Bonjour mon pere.” Lafayette smiled but George didn’t change his expression.

“What the hell is this?” George asked, brandishing the dress. Lafayette froze, staring at it in horror. He should have thrown it out, he should have returned it, he should have done anything but not kept it. He shouldn’t have done it.

“I- I-”

“Tell me, boy. Tell me right now.”

“I do not know. S’il vous plait!”

“Don’t drop into French now! Speak English I know you can!”

Lafayette stared at him for a long moment, wondering if he could. He didn’t remember all of it anymore, didn’t remember most of it. How could he? For years he’d not spoken it, just pretended that he didn’t know until he honestly didn’t.

“What are you doing with this?”

“I did not- I do not know.”

“You don’t know?” George asked, indignation plain in his voice.

“I-”

“You don’t know?” George screamed, stalking forwards. Lafayette froze where he stood, he couldn’t move in the face of the pure rage spilling off George. “What the hell are you?”

“I-”

“Why. Do. You. Have. This?” George spat out every word, brandishing the fabric in Lafayette’s face again.

“It’s mine!” The words were out of Lafayette’s mouth before he’d even noticed. George’s face darkened, if that was even possible, at the words.

Before Lafayette could even notice he was on the floor, face stinging from where George had slapped him. George then placed a foot on Lafayette’s chest, stopping the teen from rising. Lafayette stared up at him in terror as George regarded him with cold eyes.

“I will never see you with this again. You will never wear a dress. You will never look at one again!” Lafayette whimpered from beneath him as George increased the pressure. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Lafayette whimpered out. George snorted at that and shook his head.

“Don’t you remember? That’s not why we adopted you. Now then, do you understand?”

Lafayette stared up at him for a long moment, feeling the tears gathering in his eyes before he looked away. “Oui Monsieur.”

“Now apologise.”

“Je suis desole.” Lafayette whimpered out. George kept him under his foot for another torturous moment before releasing the pressure and letting him stand, shakily.

“Never behave like this again.” George snarled out. Lafayette met his eyes and for a moment there was something insane in there, something Lafayette didn’t want to think too deeply about. Instead he just nodded and ran to his room.

That was the second time he took a razor to his skin. He ripped his leg apart, knowing now that there was no way he’d wear a skirt short enough to reveal them. At that thought he ripped deeper into his skin, whimpering as blood exploded.

Lafayette barely noticed as he raised his wrists to his eye line. It would be so easy.

The blade rested against the delicate skin and Lafayette just stared for a torturously long moment.

Why not?

He wasn’t accepted here. He knew exactly what George would do if he knew Lafayette’s thoughts about the boy who could be seen walking down the street. He knew what George would do if he tried to buy anything even vaguely feminine again.

And he couldn’t even have his English.

He barely noticed that first stroke, too shallow. The next was deeper, fuelled by his anger as he ripped his flesh open.

At some point his mouth opened in a scream of anger, despair, of fear and agony and still just a scream.

He didn’t hear the banging on the door and even if he had he wouldn’t have cared. They didn’t want him to speak so he wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t do much of anything anymore.

Lafayette felt the razor suddenly slip from his hand and frowned down at it. He reached for it but suddenly overbalanced and crashed to the floor, whimpering as he did. He was going to right himself but then gave up, just lying there for a long moment before spotting something out of the corner of his eye. The top.

Yellow.

White.

Purple.

Black.

That was all Lafayette was aware of as his vision blurred to nothing.

 

When Lafayette woke up it was to an all too sterile room and bandaged wrists. He stared down at them for too long before lying back. So he’d even managed to fuck that up.

“Gilbert?” Lafayette cracked one eye open to see a nurse above him. He smiled weakly.

“Please, Je m’appelle Lafayette.”

“Oh, can you now speak English?”

“Mon Anglias,” Lafayette shrugged. “Com se com sa.”

“Oh.”

“Not perfect.” Lafayette clarified.

“Well, do you want me to get a translator?”

“Non. I understand enough.”

“Well then. You’ve been placed on a twenty four watch list. This means you need to be supervised for the next twenty four hours just in case. While this happens you’ll be appraised by a psychologist.”

“Okay.” Lafayette mumbled. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Yes.” The nurse smiled and Lafayette nodded before slipping back to sleep, a sleep full of yellow flowers, purple flowers, a cloud filled sky and a black void threatening to envelop him.

 

When Lafayette next woke up a man was stood at the end of his bed. The man was tall and imposing but Lafayette was beyond the point of caring. He felt so numb.

“Hello Gilbert.”

“Non, non,” Lafayette mumbled out. “Je m’appelle Lafayette.”

“My name is George Washington.”

“Like the founder, non?”

“Lafayette, have you been hurt by your father?”

“He did not do this.” Lafayette half mumbled. “Non, this was me.”

“I was worried that was true. But why did you do this?”

“Je suis engourdi. I do not want this anymore.”

“Numb?”

“La mort était le meilleur choix.” Lafayette mumbled. Washington’s knuckles tightened and he had to take a deep breath to calm himself.

“Death is never the better option Lafayette.”

“It is for me.” Lafayette stared up at the ceiling as he spoke, not even sure what he was saying.

“Did your father hit you?”

“Oui.”

“More than once?”

“Non. Not truly.” Lafayette let his gaze wander over to Washington and frowned. “You will not tell him what I say, will you? He would not be happy.”

“What wouldn’t he be happy about?”

“Anglais. I am to speak Francois, not English. That was why they wanted me.”

“You will not be hurt for speaking English Lafayette. I promise you that.”

At that Lafayette began to laugh. He didn’t stop for a long time. Washington frowned at him, stepping forwards to raise him but Lafayette just shook his head.

“I will never be not hurt while I live with George.”

“Then you won’t.” Washington placed a hand on Lafayette’s shoulder and smiled. “You’ll never see him again.”

“Je ne te crois pas.”

“You will believe me. Give me a chance?”

Lafayette stared at him for a long moment before shrugging. What did he have to lose? His identity had already been stolen, his language had been stolen and his very culture had been used against him. He had nothing left to lose.

“Pourquoi diable ne pas?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering, the top's colours are the colours of the Agender flag. Laf's gonna be genderfluid in the end but I've figured that it's gonna take him a while to figure that out. I'm trying to figure this out as I write it so if I put something wrong please don't hesitate to correct me. That also goes for the French words. Which may or may not be google translate.  
> (I'm shit at French. I always thought that there was no real point to learning it because Mandarin would be more helpful and I'd probably never need it. Imagine me telling littler me that I'd eventually use my French skills to write fan fiction about founding fathers.)  
> If you want French translations leave a comment because I'm trying to figure out how to have Laf, a character who talks a lot, speaking almost entirely in French while letting the audience understand it without having to have another page open for google translate.  
> See you next time.


	7. I Don't Know How To Say No...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria begged Hamilton to say no to her. It had been so long since she'd dared to say that out loud she shouldn't have been surprised when he didn't understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MARIA IS A WONDERFUL PERSON WHO DESERVES A NICER WRITER THAN ME

Maria learnt far too early what power she had, the power and the dangers of it. It had started when she was a teenager, when her body grew without her permission and her mind didn’t mature at the same time.

Maria had never met her father but she knew her mother. She knew what her mother did, why she came back from nights crying with small pricks of blood along her elbow. Her mama would then just lie on the couch for the rest of the night and day, staring off into nothing and smiling.

When that happened Maria knew that nothing she did would raise her mama, she just had to wait until she was back. Even when Maria screamed and yelled, her mama would just keep smiling off into nothing as if it was nothing, as if everything was fine when Maria knew it wasn’t.

 

Sometimes men would come over to the house and Maria would stay in her bedroom, locking the door as she heard noises she didn’t understand but didn’t want to hear. Later she’d understand everything so much better.

One night her mama ran out of money. Her mama had already run out of herself, no-one wanting her that night. Maria had just been sitting in one corner, trying to get her homework done when the man had spotted her.

He’d called her pretty, had called her beautiful but something about it felt her on edge, set her on high alert. She didn’t trust the man. Her mama didn’t seem to either, rifling through her purse when everyone in the room already knew it was empty.

“Take me then. You-” Maria’s mama stopped talking, her words cut off by a scream of pain as one of the men hit her.

“We knew where you’ve been.” He then spat at her. Maria gripped her pen harder at that, wanting to go over and hit the man but she forced herself to relax. Getting angry wouldn’t help anyone now. Instead she just looked back down at her work.

“What about her?”

Maria knew the question had been coming but she didn’t dare acknowledge it for a long second. She knew that the man above her was staring down at her and she hated it.

“Maria-” Her mama started again before breaking off. Maria lifted her head, fear obvious in her eyes. But her mama just lifted one hand to her own arm, scratching away at the injection sites again and again, as if that would do anything.

“Mama I don’t-” Maria started before forcing herself into silence. She pleaded silently with her mama as the man above her began to smile. He pulled from his pockets a bag with two needles in it. Instantly Maria’s mama was focused on it, ignoring everything else.

Maria was less taken by it.

“Mama, you keep on saying you’re going to stop! You-” Maria took in a deep breath as her mama didn’t even acknowledge her. “Please don’t.”

“Half an hour with her.” The man above Maria gestured to the girl, “And we’ll give you this.”

For a moment the woman seemed frozen and Maria thought that time had stopped. But then the moment ended and her mama nodded. The bag was thrown at her and Maria felt strong hands wrap around her arms.

“Get off me!” Maria screeched out but before she could do anything else she felt a prick of pain in her neck before everything began to lose its clarity. “Wha-” She breathed out in confusion. The man who was now dragging her just shook his head.

“It’s not your fault kiddo.”

When the man had left and Maria was left in a pool of her own tears it felt like her fault.

It always felt like her fault.

 

After that first night Maria didn’t call the woman who had given birth to her mama. Instead it turned to Susanna. And then when she died, a needle in her arm and pupils blown, Maria couldn’t find it in herself to feel sad.

She couldn’t bring herself to feel anything really.

Every day felt like pain as she pulled herself up out of bed and towards whatever else she had to do. She grew lethargic and exhausted. Sometimes she wondered if that was what her mama had felt. Then she told herself not to call the woman that.

When Maria went into the foster system they couldn’t find anywhere for her, no-one wanted someone like her. (No-one used the word yet but she knew it, she knew what they thought of her.)

So instead she went to a foster family that was too big and a brand new school where no-one wanted to be near her.

Something she figured out quickly was that she could change that, she could manipulate that. When she walked down the hallways people watched, people turned to stare and Maria knew what that meant.

There were other foster kids at that school but she didn’t pay them any attention, there was only one who could help her in any way. He’d gained a reputation from his first day. A reputation of broken knuckles and a tongue sharp enough to explain the bloodied smiles.

So one day she pulled the lanky teen to one side and started to kiss him deeply, moaning gently against him. When she’d pulled back he’d remained frozen for a moment before laughing.

“Did I miss something?”

“Why would you think that?” She purred, adjusting his coat ever so slightly. He smiled back at her with that crooked smile.

“Normally I say something before women throw themselves at me.”

“Do women often throw themselves at you?”

“Oh. All the time.” He whispered the last line as he ducked closer, kissing her neck gently. She knew that there was a crowd now, all staring at them. But, after all, that was the point. She wanted to make a scene, she wanted to tell them all what she was willing to sell, now they just needed to offer something.

“Should we take this somewhere more private?” Maria whispered. The other teen pulled back, a calculating expression crossing his face. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything another voice bounced across the corridor.

“Maria Lewis!”

At her name Maria disentangled herself from the teen and turned to face the teacher striding down the halls.

“Mr Reynolds,” The other teen stepped forwards, smiling broadly. “I don’t think that-”

“Out of the way Jefferson.” Reynolds snapped, bodily forcing Jefferson to one side. Something dark flashed in Jefferson’s eyes for a moment but then he just nodded.

“I’ll see you soon then.” Jefferson grinned, blowing a kiss to Maria as she was ushered from the crowd by Reynolds.

When they were alone in a classroom Reynolds turned on Maria with a calculating gaze.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Maria asked, doing her best to keep her voice level. Even after all this time, being alone with a man scared her.

“That scene you played out there with Jefferson.”

“I- I just thought he looked lonely.” Maria shrugged. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend after all.”

“Maria,” Reynolds took a seat next to Maria, pulling it close to her. “You need to understand that you have a power that some people can’t resist. It could get you into trouble one day.” As he spoke he gently took her hand, fondling it.

Maria stared down at it numbly before looking back at his face.

She would have preferred Jefferson.

“I think I understand my power perfectly.”

 

Maria shouldn’t have been surprised when Reynolds adopted her. Somehow she still was.

But she survived, she coped with it. It could have been worse.

Her bed began to get cold but she had food. Her wrists began to bruise but she had a roof over her head. She started to take hour long showers which scalded her skin as she tried to scrub it off but at least-

At least-

It could have been worse, Maria assured herself.

She just wasn’t quite sure how.

They fell into some kind of balance in the months that followed. She would wait outside his classroom every afternoon until he was done. He’d then press a soft kiss to her while they sat in the car.

When they had sex she tried to ignore it, tried to ignore what he’d spit out. She knew who (what) she was. He didn’t need to remind her.

Maria knew that she was a whore, that maybe that was all she’d been born for but she didn’t care. Yeah, she was a whore, but she was an alive whore. She was alive and healthier than she’d been in a long time.

 

It worked fine. Until Reynolds fucked it up.

Or maybe Maria did.

She wasn’t sure.

One day she got sick. She didn’t wait for Reynolds outside his classroom, instead rushing home and climbing into her bed that she wasn’t even sure she’d used once.

When he got home he was pissed. He ran up the stairs and grabbed her. Maria started to scream as he dragged her away and for the first time she tried to say no, she tried so desperately.

Then there wasn’t ground beneath her feet and she was tumbling down the stairs, body smacking against each step until she lay in a pile at the bottom. Reynolds started to swear and curse but she just ignored him. She wondered if that was what death felt like, a man screaming at her while she couldn’t feel anything.

Because if it is then she was okay with that.

She was surprisingly okay with that.

 

In the end it wasn’t death, just a series of broken ribs that meant that Reynolds didn’t touch her for fear of making it worse. In the beginning she welcomed it but as the days ticked on she grew scared, terrified. She couldn’t pay him anymore and what would stop him from just getting rid of her now?

That answer came when Reynolds started to come home later, when Maria noticed him talking to one of the other foster kids who couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

The boy, Hercules, was her age. He was tall and broad and smiled but that had stopped. All of that had stopped. He started to jump, to glance around in fear. She noticed it, she remembered it. He was afraid and as she watched she realised she didn’t need to be anymore.

Reynolds had a new sacrifice.

After a month the boy began to look a bit better, started smiling again and seemed to relax. He still didn’t notice when Maria stared at him but she didn’t expect anything else. Only people who knew would be watching that gaze. She knew.

She knew far too much.

She recognised that gaze in Reynolds one day as she sat behind Hercules. He shuddered as Reynolds paused over his work for a fraction of a second too long. Every time Reynolds passed Hercules would freeze up, just a bit.

“Mulligan, a word.” Reynolds stated from the front of the class. Hercules froze and Maria closed her eyes. She wanted to help but she couldn’t. There were some things she just couldn’t give.

But she waited for him, waited to comfort him, to whisper that it wasn’t his fault, that it would never be and it never was his fault. There was an itch underneath her skin telling her to do it and if she didn’t know any better she would have said it was herself, from that night when her mama figured out her priorities.

When the door finally opened Hercules ran out of it, like a bat from hell. Maria wasn’t watching as he crashed into her. She gasped in pain as fire raced along the line of broken ribs. Hercules barely noticed, mumbling something out before running. She then paused a second too long before following. She got to the classroom he collapsed in and paused. She didn’t know him. She had no idea what would help him.

Maria couldn’t help.

She slowly slipped away, back to that classroom. On her way she spotted one of the Schuyler sisters and she paused again.

“Do you know Mulligan?” Maria asked. The sister immediately turned and frowned. Maria winced internally. She knew what she looked like with her short skirt and her low cut top and it was definitely not a Good Samaritan.

“Yeah.”

“Thought ya ought to know that he ran in there a moment ago. You’d better go check.” Maria inclined her head and the sister hesitated a moment longer before taking off, without even thanking Maria. Maria didn’t care. (Maria shouldn’t care.)

Maria watched for a long moment, clutching her side where the ribs were screaming at her in desperation. She could go in but she didn’t.

Instead she continued her trudge back to the classroom. Reynolds was sat on top of his desk, waiting for her. She affixed a smile to her face and stepped forwards, letting his hands run over her. She resisted the helplessness that threatened to overcome her.

She wasn’t helpless. She was a whore and this was what she deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two chaps of this fic to go :)  
> The next will be called 'We Have to Win?' and the last currently has seven working titles. Only one is from the actual soundtrack and it is one of the most often quoted lines in the fandom. One of the most obscure ones is 'Tell the Real Story'. (10 house points to whoever can figure out who the very last character will be...)  
> See you next time.


	8. We have to win?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Madison was fighting long before anyone else. Unfortunately his enemy isn't one he can defeat. There's no way to defeat your body after all.

The house was cold, the snow piled up against the door as if trying to break it down. Inside the house a boy sat, curled up into himself. He was shivering and trying to hold in the tears.

He was alone and he didn’t understand why.

He’d been punished before, sent to his room to be alone but never for this long, never when the house was so cold.

His teeth wouldn’t stop chattering and the lights had turned off two days ago. The last of the food had run out a few days ago. The boy hated that, hated that he hadn’t been able to stockpile it better, that he hadn’t been able to look after himself better. It was his job after all.

When the doorbell rang it took a long moment for it to make sense in his brain. When it finally did it took him even longer to struggle to his feet, only to collapse against the floor.

“Is someone inside?” Someone yelled through the door. The boy coughed weakly, throat raspy and struggled back upright, this time half collapsing against the wall. The room wasn’t staying quite still, was tilting on its axis as he stumbled around it.

“I think I hear someone.” That same voice form outside mumbled. The boy wanted to say something but had nothing to say. Instead he just limped towards the door and slowly undid the first lock. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

The boy opened his mouth but all that came out was a long rasp, rather than the words he needed. The person outside rapped on the door again but the boy just shook his head minutely and raised a trembling hand to the next lock.

When the door was finally unlocked the boy stumbled backwards before pulling it open slowly, to come face to face with two police officer.

“Shit.” One of them breathed out, staring at the boy. The boy was about to say something back, that adults shouldn’t talk like that, before he saw black dots invade his vision and he crumpled to the ground.

 

When he next woke up he was in a hospital bed. That was new. He raised his head but then let out a whimper and let it fall back down. Instantly a nurse came rushing over.

“Are you okay honey?”

“Ye-yeah.” The boy stuttered out, gazing blearily around the room. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital.”

“I’m not meant to be here. I’m meant to be at home. Where’s- where’s my mommy?”

“I need to get you a doctor.” The nurse replied, not answering his question. He frowned at her in confusion.

“Where’s my mommy?”

“I’m sorry but she- she died.”

“No. Th-that’s not right!”

“I’m very sorry.”

“No! She said-” The boy broke off in a coughing fit and the nurse rushed forwards, trying to hold him down but he suddenly went limp in her grasp.

“I’m-” Before she could say anything else the boy in her grip was convulsing, head hitting against the wall as he did. She screamed for help as the boy kept on fitting.

 

When the boy finally woke up the nurse was there again. She whispered to him something about an illness that had infected him, that hadn’t been spotted, that some adjustments had been made.

Then she’d pulled a chair up to him and frowned at him, as if she actually cared.

“Do you have any family?”

“My mom and dad.”

“I’m sorry but they died.”

“No!” The boy screamed out, writhing. Before even a few seconds had passed he stopped, as a cough grew in his throat. The nurse frowned and propped him up, leaning him forwards.

When the cough finally subsided the boy fell back, exhausted.

“Wh-what happened to them?”

“There was a car crash. It- it took the police a long time to identify them.” The nurse didn’t go into the horrors of what the bodies, how the car had caught fire and mangled everything inside. “That’s why you were alone for so long.”

“Why didn’t they tell me? There-” The boy broke off with a sniffle. “There wasn’t any food left.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Days ago. I- I think.”

“We think that might be why you’re so sick. Your body didn’t have enough resources to heal itself and now-” The nurse sighed. “There’s a man in the hallway who’s going to bring you to where you’ll be staying for a while. Do you want to meet him?”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.” With that the nurse stood and walked to the door. “Mr Washington, you can come in now.” She then held the door open and a tall, broad shouldered man walked in. He took one look at the boy in the bed and sighed, as if it was something he’d seen far too many times.

“Hello son, what’s your name?”

“J-James.” The boy replied.

“I’m George Washington. I run a foster home.”

“I don’t need a new- a new family.” James ran out of breath halfway through the sentence, having to pause to breathe in again.

“I know. For now we’re just going to get you better. We can think about a more permanent home later.”

“Why-” James broke off into another cough and Washington frowned. “Wh-what’s wrong with me?” The one sentence exhausted him and he lay back in the bed, breathing heavily.

“While you were alone you seem to have picked up meningococcal meningitis. It’s a very nasty illness. This managed to get into your spinal cord and-” The nurse paused, thinking over her next words. “The seizure you had earlier seems to be epilepsy because of the meningitis. There’s no cure for that but if you’re lucky that was a one off.”

“If I’m not?”

“Then epilepsy can be medicated and fully controlled. You’d need to take some pills but apart from that you’ll be fine.”

“Is that all?” James asked. Washington and the nurse glanced at each other and suddenly James knew it wasn’t all. Not by a long shot.

“Son,” Washington started, sighing. “This isn’t going to be easy to hear but I need you to be brave for a moment. Do you think you can do that?”

James glanced between the two.

“Why do I need to be brave?”

“The infection spread to your leg and we- there wasn’t any way to save them.”

“What?” James asked in confusion. Save his leg? What did they mean? The nurse sighed again and slowly lifted the covers away from his lower half. James stared in confusion when his leg just stopped halfway down. His knee was intact but there was barely two inches below that before there was nothing. “I don’t-”

James lifted his leg tentatively, surprised when the stump he was looking at obeyed him. Washington sighed from next to him. The boy had a long journey ahead of it and it had only just begun.

“I don’t understand…”

 

 

It took a month for the hospital to be comfortable to release James. By then most of his memory had come back. He hadn’t even realised he’d missed it until he was feeling better. The people around him obviously had. The cough had started to go away but he’d been warned that it could come back and that if it did he needed to talk to a doctor immediately.

He didn’t walk out of the hospital, he wheeled out. They had decided that his prosthetic shouldn’t be used much until he got his strength back. The doctors also said he should get practice in with his wheelchair.

The wheelchair wasn’t that bad, overall. It was quick and after a month James knew how to use it but he still hated it. He hated how people saw him when he was in it. They saw the crippled James, the weak kid who was overcome by an illness and lost so much to it. They didn’t see him as the bright kid who kept up with schoolwork while in the hospital or the kid who’d kept himself alive, they saw the wheelchair.

That didn’t stop, it didn’t stop when he finished middle school or even as he progressed through high school. He was a cripple and it took so much willpower for him to imagine he could ever be anything else.

 

“JAMES!” James jumped as he heard his name called. He turned to the door just in time as it slammed open. Peggy ran in, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hey Pegs.” James pushed the chair forwards as he spoke, watching Peggy almost vibrate with energy. “What happened?”

“There’s someone new!”

“New?” James huffed out a breath at that before nodding. “Have you seen them?”

“Yes! But uh-” Peggy broke off at that, frowning slightly.

“What is it?”

“He arrived in a police car!”

“What?” James asked, wishing that he’d misheard the girl. She just shrugged which didn’t help his conscience in any way. “Grab my leg.” He gestured over to the corner where his prosthetic sat. Peggy grabbed it and he slowly pulled it on before standing warily.

It was old now. It hurt when he walked too far or if it stayed on for too long but he ignored that. Prosthetics were expensive and buying another would have to wait a few months.

“You sure James? You said it was hurting you now.”

“It’s fine Pegs.” James took a step forwards and ignored his body’s instinct to wince. “Let’s go meet the new guy.”

“Okay!” Peggy bounced out of the room before pausing and returning, offering him a hand. He took it gratefully and limped down the hall. By the time they reached the stairs he had to take a second to readjust the bit of cloth between his fake and his real leg.

As James bent down, Angelica stormed up the stairs, face flushed. James eyed her warily before she, ignoring him completely, grabbed Peggy.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Angelica hissed out. Peggy glared at her, face cold and James felt the familiar sense of fear Angelica always managed to carry. Peggy had told him what had happened, how the older girl had schemed her way out of their house by framing her own father. Even if James didn’t fully believe it he trusted Peggy and she believed it.

“I’m going to meet my new bother.” Peggy spat back. Angelica schooled her face into calm before responding.

“No you’re not. You’re going down there just so you can say you met a criminal.”

“You’re not my mom Angelica! I can do what I like!” Peggy snapped out. James watched it from the side, beginning to wish he’d just stayed in his room.

“I am your sister and-”

“You are-”

“Pegs?” Eliza’s voice was soft but powerful, causing both of her sisters to turn to her. She smiled before turning to Angelica. “Is he dangerous?”

“Don’t know.” Angelica glared at the floor, as if she could punish the boy beneath it for scaring Eliza. “Washington’s still talking to him. I came to make sure Peggy didn’t do anything stupid.”

“I-” Peggy started, anger obvious on her face.

“If you want,” James interjected before Peggy could respond. “I can ask him.”

“That would be helpful.” Eliza smiled at James before glancing down at his leg. “Oh, can you-”

“It’s fine.” James waved her off. “Just a bit stiff.” Eliza nodded, a slight frown on her face but she didn’t say anything else. James walked down the stairs, wincing as he heard the argument start up again behind him.

It took him too long to get down the flight, he knew that, but he ignored that. Instead he looked around, wondering where the new kid could be. As he stood there Washington stepped out of one of the rooms and paused, spotting James.

“James?” Washington’s voice bounced off the walls and James nodded. “What are you-” Washington glanced behind him and James gulped. Washington was never scared, never even put off. The new kid must have shaken him badly.

“Is he dangerous?” James asked, not taking his eyes off the door Washington had just left.

“Dangerous? You mean Thomas?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s-” Washington frowned, trying to find a word. As he paused the door behind him opened. James jumped slightly and took a step backwards.

He saw sight of a dark skinned boy with a floof of almost black curls before James felt his leg bend beneath him. The next thing he saw was the ceiling and Washington’s worried face as he caught James.

“James?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Thomas asked. James took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.

“James,”

“I- I’m okay.” James replied, his voice small. Washington frowned before nodding and releasing him to stand straight. James nodded at him before staring at Thomas. The boy sauntered forwards, face unreadable. Washington watched the two for a moment before stepping back.

“He-hello.” James started, wishing his voice would be a bit stronger. “My name’s James Madison.”

“Jefferson. Thomas Jefferson.”

“Like Bond?” James asked, smiling weakly. Jefferson stared at him for a long moment before smiling back.

“Exactly.” Jefferson then stepped forwards, grabbing James’ arm. James froze in panic as Jefferson leant in until James could feel the other boy’s body heat. “Who hurt you?” Jefferson whispered. James stared at him before shaking his head.

“Wh-”

“Thomas,” Washington warned, stepping forwards. Jefferson regarded him for a long moment before turning back to James.

“Who hurt your leg?”

“Oh.” James shook his head. “No you- you’ve got it wrong. I-I’m fine. I-” James broke off as Jefferson dropped his arm. Jefferson’s face had lit up in a smile that made James’ stomach roil uncomfortably.

“Sorry.” Jefferson turned back to Washington before he’d even finished his word. “Is there anything else?”

“No.” Washington said, staring between the two with a worried eye. “You’re free to stay at Yorktown.”

“I fear that free may be the wrong word.” Jefferson smiled as he spoke. “I am a criminal after all.”

“And you’ll be treated the same as anybody else here.” Washington replied evenly. Jefferson nodded before responding.

“Well, can James show me to my room?”

“James?” Washington asked and James nodded in response. “He’s in the room next to you.”

“Okay. It- it’s this way.” James indicated. Jefferson turned to him and followed. Jefferson was silent as they climbed the stairs, not even asking about how slow James was or how he winced on some levels. In fact Jefferson didn’t say anything more until he was in his own room with James next to him.

James all but collapsed onto Jefferson’s bed and Jefferson clicked the door shut. In a second James was upright again, staring at him.

“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to-”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Jefferson’s voice was soft as he knelt in front of James. “I promise.”

“I-” James opened his mouth before shutting it again.

“Is it Washington?” Jefferson asked, staring at James with an intensity that put James on edge.

“What?”

“You’re limping. He already knew. You- you look like you’re in a lot of pain. I-” Jefferson looked away before forcing himself to stare at James again. “I know what these houses can be like. I know they’re not full of angels like they want us to believe. I- I know, okay?”

“Are you asking if Washington hurt me?” James asked, stomach dropping as Jefferson nodded. “Oh God no!” Jefferson frowned at that and James scrabbled for the leg of his trousers. He pulled the bottom up slightly, revealing the fake leg. Jefferson stared at it for a long moment before reaching forwards.

“Can I-”

“Yeah.”

Jefferson nodded and touched the plastic. He let out a long sigh and shook his head.

“I jumped to conclusions. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. Most people just think I’m a-a freak or something.” James shrugged as if it was nothing before looking back at Jefferson. He was smiling now, a smile that seemed to suggest danger.

“How about, next time you see someone like that you point me in their direction?” Jefferson chuckled slightly, shaking his head. “You know what, I think we’re going to be good friends, James.”

“Okay.” James smiled back, not quite sure how to react to that. “Are you dangerous?”

“Do I look dangerous?”

“Do I look disabled?”

“Right now, with the leg out? Yeah. Just a bit.”

“I-I mean.”

“I’m not going to hurt you James. I’m not gonna hurt anyone. It was a- a misunderstanding. I was defending someone very close to me.” Jefferson looked sad at that, not meeting James’ eyes.

“Okay.” James nodded, filing away the knowledge for a moment before looking up again. This time he was smiling. “You haven’t met Lafayette yet, have you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologise...  
> Also, if at some points a plural is used when referred to James' legs then that was because I was originally going to make him lose both of them. In the end I thought that that might be too difficult to write around with the added complication of epilepsy and the medication he's going to be on.  
> I wanna apologise for the gap between this chapter and the last one. I'm going through some stuff but I'm hoping to post the next chapter quite soon. There will then be a gap before the proper fic this leads into but it will happen (I've got nearly 30 000 words written out so it is happening.)  
> See you next time.


	9. Dying Like A Martyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander has something to say. He's not quite sure what it is but he's going to make damn sure everyone hears.

Alexander sat in a corner of a shop front, feeling his head slip to the side. He wasn’t sure if it was from sheer exhaustion or the cough that just wouldn’t leave him. As someone passed by he hunched further into himself. He couldn’t let himself be seen, not now.

He’d fought for this long and he wasn’t about to lose. His eyelids began to slowly droop and he shook himself. It was too cold for that. He couldn’t afford to sleep now, not when it was so cold. He’d seen it happen before, other homeless people just frozen in the middle of the night, dead before anyone even noticed.

That couldn’t happen to him. He wouldn’t let it.

But he couldn’t help as his head slipped further down the wall, as sleep wrapped its warm tendrils around him and he slowly relaxed even while he continued to shiver.

He also didn’t notice the squad car rolling up to him.

The police woman who stepped out sighed at the sight of a kid shivering and looking so alone. She grabbed her radio and started to talk.

“This is 3-0-0-6 to Control. I’ve got a homeless kid here. What should I do?”

“How old is he?”

The woman frowned, looking at the kid for a long moment.

“Maybe thirteen?”

“Wake him up. Do you want back up?”

“Yeah. I don’t think he’ll come quietly.”

“Hang on for a few moments.” The voice from the radio broke off and the police man just frowned down at the kid. He was skinny and looked pale. There was a gauntness about him that didn’t suit him at all and the small bag at his feet did nothing to soothe her worries.

After about five minutes another police man walked up and nodded to the woman.

“This the kid?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.” He breathed out, staring at the kid. “You wanna wake him?”

She didn’t respond, just walked forwards and crouched down in front of the kid. Before she touched him she grabbed his bag and chucked it back to her new partner.

“In case he tries to run keep that obvious. If that’s all he’s got he won’t wanna run off without it.”

“You sure?”

The woman nodded before gently touching the boy’s shoulder. Instantly he was awake, staring up at her in terror. His eyes flickered around his surroundings before noticing his bag was gone and the police woman who was right in front of him. In an instant he was on his feet, ready to run.

But she had expected it and she grabbed him, her hand easily covering his all too thin wrist. He whimpered slightly.

“I’m trying to help.” She said gently but the kid just shook his head.

“Let me go!” He screeched, voice hoarse and scratchy.

“Stay still!” She cried back. She managed to manhandle him into a position she could keep hold of him and eventually he stopped struggling, instead bending over in a coughing fit that didn’t stop. “Christ, kid. We’ve gotta get you to hospital.”

“No! Just leave me alone!” He coughed out, still out of breath. The police men swapped glances before shaking their heads.

“Come on.” The woman pulled him forwards before unceremoniously dunking him into the squad car. As she walked around to the front he tried to open the door but it was already locked. The two policemen got in the car and drove off, ignoring the kid that was screaming in the back.

 

Five years ago Alexander would never have imagined he’d be in that situation, not knowing where his next scrap of food would be coming from or if there would even be another scrap. He’d been happy.

Then his mother had died. Then his cousin died. Then his town was destroyed.

He managed to move to America, thinking anywhere would be better than the skeleton that was his town but then it had gone downhill.

He’d been genuinely surprised that had been possible.

The people he’d moved over with cared. They didn’t hit him, would never even think of it but they’d leave him alone. Alexander didn’t want to say anything about it, knew that they were just trying to keep them afloat but there were weeks when he wouldn’t speak a word to either of them, spending the week talking to no-one but himself.

He didn’t get on very well at school, not finding the work interesting and so not bothering. What was the point?

Instead he started to write. Slowly at first, just a few words on scraps of paper but then he couldn’t stop.

He’d think about what he could say to his adoptive parents, what he would say to his mother if she was still alive, what he’d say to friends if he had them. When he’d started writing he couldn’t stop.

During the empty weeks he’d just hunch over his notebooks, scribbling out conversations he could have one day. When the adults finally came back he wouldn’t (couldn’t) stop talking to them. They’d bat him away sometimes but he’d just move onto a different topic. During the day he consumed books, magazines, anything that would let him talk in those brief, snatched minutes he could have.

When the teacher approached him Alexander refused to say anything. He didn’t talk about how hungry he was, how much weight he knew he was losing. He didn’t talk about how he’d run out of useable pens a while back and could now only think, his writing having been taken from him. He didn’t talk about how he knew his adopted parents wouldn’t make rent this week. He didn’t talk about how he knew he should leave, he didn’t want to. He didn’t talk about how silence made him nervous, how he’d babble about anything and everything because at least that way someone would be there to talk to him. He didn’t mention how oppressive that silence had become, how it weighed on him like a lead weight and how much it hurt, how it physically hurt him to keep it all in.

He said none of it but somehow she guessed all of it.

The next day he was taken from that home and placed into foster care. He didn’t want it but as he was dragged off he saw the adopted parent’s faces, the relief in them. He didn’t fight after that.

 

The first family they put him in was loud, loud enough for him to relax, to be able to stay. There were six other kids there and there was never silence. He still wrote but now he had pens and paper to do it. He still read but now he could read whatever he wanted rather than just whatever was near him at the time.

He was free.

Alexander stayed with that family for several months until they found him kissing a boy underneath a cherry tree.

The next day he was back in a Care home, back with the oppressive silence and a brand new black eye.

 

The next family was too quiet and he was too loud. He got into fights with much bigger, much older people. People who didn’t like it when he let his mouth run off without him. But whenever he tried to stop it the silence would threaten to overtake him and he’d start talking again.

In some fucked up way he’d enjoyed it. Even when he was nursing a broken wrist he knew he wasn’t alone. Even when his face was swollen and aching he knew he wasn’t going to be abandoned. When someone hit him at least they were paying attention to him.

That family sent him back to the care home after his third fight in a week. As he sat in the back of the car he didn’t bother to mention the other fights, the fights that were beatings as he’d been hit and he hadn’t been able to make himself shut up.

Maybe his body said enough but it didn’t matter. He had the bruises to prove he wasn’t in the wrong and no-one cared.

 

After that he was moved across the country again and again. His only constant was his mouth, how much he talked. In some of the houses he was hit for talking and he’d all but spit in their faces sometimes he’d actually do it, that was one of the fastest ways of being returned to the care home.

No matter what, he didn’t let the silence overtake him. Even when he was trying to sleep his mind whirred on as if someone was talking, as if he wasn’t about to be abandoned. When awake he couldn’t focus on schoolwork, terrified he’d be left again, that he would be alone.

Whenever it did happen, when he was dropped back at a care house, he felt empty. The pain of the beatings, of an empty stomach, of swollen eyes was better than the pain of that heartbreak.

But even so, he couldn’t shut up and sit down, he couldn’t let his voice be silenced. Everything had a noise and everything had to be heard. Alexander just hoped that one day his voice wouldn’t be silenced. He knew it was stupid, that it would never happen, but he couldn’t stop wishing on the long nights when he couldn’t sleep, when all he could see was his village and the destruction that had torn through it.

 

The final family took six months to accept him from the care home and when they did Alexander felt a sense of foreboding that he couldn’t shake.

When he heard cries in the night, when he saw bruises on the other kids he made his decision. In the middle of the night he slipped from the house, with a small bag in his hands and a mouth that was still muttering, still trying to free himself.

It took him three months until he was caught.

 

Alexander stared out of the window of the car, numb. What was the point?

“Where are you taking me?”

“That depends.”

“On what? Because I’m a US citizen. It’s not legal for you to hold me for time without a charge. You’re only allowed twenty four hours for that or forty eight if you think I’m a terrorist threat and you don’t think that. I’m not. That’s why you don’t think it. But you could still hold me for twenty four hours but you shouldn’t. I’m okay. I just want to go back out there. Why aren’t you letting me go?” Alexander kicked the chair in front of him, trying to keep his breath steady as the silence began to build.

“Jesus kid, you’ve looked into this.” The woman said eventually. Alexander glanced at her in fear before nodding. “We’re not holding you. You’re a minor. We’re going to ask you a few questions and then you’re going to a care house.”

“No!” Alexander screamed. “I don’t want to!”

“Tough.” The man butted in. Alexander shied back from that slightly before continuing.

“You can’t hold me against my will! I’m-”

“A minor so shut the hell up.”

“Hey,” the woman started, scowling at her partner. “Don’t talk to the kid like that.”

“What’s your name?” The man asked, ignoring the woman. Alexander stared at him reproachfully and tried to stop himself blurting it out as the silence stretched on. Eventually the man scoffed. “Looks like we figured out a way to shut him up.”

“C’mon Tom.” The woman sighed. “He’s just a kid.”

“I’m not just a kid! I’m eighteen!”

“Bullshit.” Alexander glared at her in response. “You’re sick, kid and we need to get you better.”

“I don’t want to get better! I want you to let me go so I can just go back!”

“Yeah, that’s not happening kid.” The man said as the car came to a halt. He noticed Alexander’s eyes narrow slightly as the two adults got out of the car. When his door opened and he tried to bolt Tom grabbed him easily. “Don’t run off, kid.”

“I’m not a kid!” Alexander spat out, twisting violently. In response the police man just grunted and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Alexander didn’t stop fighting until they snapped shut. Then it was as if all the fight vanished and he all but collapsed.

“Is that necessary?” The woman sighed. The man just shrugged.

“We need to figure out who he is if we’re going to get him into Yorktown.”

“Yorktown’s still got space?”

“Yorktown’s always got space.”

“Okay.” The three started walking towards the police station, Alexander sagging in the man’s arms. “You call them. I’ll get the kid something.”

Alexander didn’t remember the rest of that night, he just remembered long hours of coldness and the dull apathy while all his mind could think about was the handcuffs circling his wrists. He couldn’t cope with it, couldn’t cope being chained down.

 

“Hello?”

Alexander jumped slightly as a hand came down on his shoulder and he shied away from it instinctively. He glanced around in terror before his eyes came to rest on the man in front of him.

The man towered and the air around him seemed to vibrate with a power that Alexander couldn’t explain. This man oozed authority and all Alexander wanted to do was run.

“Are you okay?”

“’M fine.” Alexander mumbled out before starting to cough. The man laughed and nodded.

“I’m not sure I’d agree with that. The people here certainly don’t.”

“I’m fine. They don’t believe me. Who are you anyway? You didn’t say that and you should have. If they still think I’m a kid then they shouldn’t let someone stay with me who won’t introduce themselves. That could be counted as child abuse if you did anything to me and you’re going to say you won’t do anything but why should I believe you? You haven’t even introduced yourself and-”

“My name is George Washington.” The man overrode Alexander, sensing that he wasn’t going to stop on his own. “You’re going to come to my care home for a bit until we can figure out where you’ll go next.”

“Where you can rid of me to, you mean.” Alexander grumbled. Washington sighed before sitting next to him.

“I have a feeling that you’ve had a hard life. That can stop here, son.” Alexander said nothing, just glared at the man. “Do you have a name?”

“No, my mother decided to not fucking name me. What do you think?” Alexander snapped out, surprised when Washington just smiled at his response.

Alexander met the man’s eyes distrustfully. The man said that he wanted to help him but he’d been promised that before and he’d been hurt. Why should he bother trying again? He’d be abandoned again, moved onto the next foster home without anyone caring. But then again, maybe this man would.

“You don’t have to tell me your name just yet.” Washington sighed and rose to his feet. “I hope that-”

“Alexander Hamilton. My name, I mean. It’s Alexander Hamilton.”

Washington turned back and smiled.

“Thank you Alexander. Now come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To your new home.”

Alexander stared at him distrustfully for a moment longer before rising, noticing suddenly that his hands weren’t cuffed anymore. Washington watched him evenly for a long moment as Alexander debated running now.

But then he met Washington’s eyes and just took a step closer to him, then another step and then another.

Washington nodded, respect in his eyes as Alexander walked out of the police station and into a car, taking him to another place where he might be kicked out in a few weeks. Maybe he’d last a month or two in this new place.

But as Alexander stared out the window he didn’t believe it. There was no way he’d survive months in a new place. They’d kick him out in a few weeks, when he didn’t shut up.

He had no idea what place he was going to, or how much he would change his life and everybody around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while life got real :/  
> So I've been working a LOT on the sequel (I FINALLY HAVE A NAME FOR IT!) but if life continues to be this lifey then I want to finish it before posting anything. So, in the meantime I suggest you go read one of these;  
> seasons of Hamilsquad- Cutielemon07 (series)  
> Laf(alling)ayette the fighting Frenchman- HammCheddr  
> You can't tame our demons- iknowitried  
> Now that you’re here- fancypearl  
> Just a quick disclaimer, some of these have similar themes as this work so check the tags. They are some of my favs and I'd include links but my internet's being annoying.  
> See you next time! (whenever that may be...)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to show off each of the main characters and what they go through. This will be part of a series (probably two parts) where this fic shows how they get to Yorktown and the next fic shows how they begin to fix each other. I haven't written any of the next fic. For this fic I've got 6 out of the nine chapters (this one included) finished and the other three at least started although I might actually cut two of those chapters and just have seven chapters. I dunno. Everything is up in the air atm.  
> But this fic will show things that never quite fit the Hamilton universe for me. One of these was why Burr, a highly educated man, didn't write the Federalist papers even when they were going to be published anonymously. So, I added angst. (That is literally this entire fic. I was curious about a couple of things and I decided that they would make good stories.)  
> Chapter two's tentative title is: How lucky we are to be alive. (One guess for who that's about.) Please don't ask when that's going to come out. I have literally no idea. Every chapter is going to be a lyric but it wasn't necessarily from the character or about the character, they just have to be in the song or mentioned in the song.  
> Also, I'm posting this at half four because I can't sleep so I will probably wake up tomorrow and completely rewrite this chapter/ take it down. Dunno. Normal me cannot speak for sleep deprived me. And no, I did not give this to my non official beta (love you tho) because she's been busy with Frankenstein and I hit my prime writing at 3 when she is asleep like every sensible human.  
> See you next time. (Whenever that is.)


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